


A Labyrinth of Frost and Illusion

by deathofaraven



Series: A Court of Ice and Shadows [1]
Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Labyrinth AU, Labyrinth inspired...AU-ish?, Other, anyway, look the important thing you know is Reaver's a fae king, overly accurate information about the full moon of August 1883, posting as I write chapters so I'm sorry if updates are slow, potentially detailed descriptions of how bustle dresses get in the way when fighting, seduction as a weapon, tagging characters that won't be there much but oh well, the rating will bump to explicit in chapter 8, the slash between their names is for the sexual tension that comes with arrant hatred, usual warnings for language; violence; and all that fun stuff apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-03-04 10:10:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13362399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: Three months ago, Victoria's brother vanished. The only clue: a reference in Logan's journal to the Fae, who aren't quite as extinct as the people of Albion had once believed. The Fae King has stolen her brother and has issued a challenge: conquer his labyrinth in three nights and Logan goes free. Fall prey to it, or its master, and Logan will remain in the Otherworld forever. But the way out isn’t so clear. And making it to the end doesn't mean they'll get out alive.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> At the beginning of the month, I got a mostly rude message on FFN that basically amounted to someone saying I don't write Reaver dark enough. As someone who started out as a horror writer, I found this amusing. And decided to take it as a challenge. A very self-indulgent challenge. Reaver's not dark enough, you say? Oh, dear; then let's see how dark he and I can get.
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to Prongs (I cannot wait til you have an Ao3 account, friendo...there are still people who would like to talk to you about Goodnight, I think) for sitting up with me all night and watching me go from planning something ridiculous to planning something that left us both scarred.

_“Do not attempt to best the Devil at his own game.”_ The seeress’s grim words followed her the entire walk home. Victoria’s wooden soled boots smacked sharply against the rain-soaked cobble streets with every step—her shopping cradled to her chest beneath her cloak. She didn’t want to think about anything, just where her feet were going, but the thought intruded with every step. _“Attempting to best the Devil”_. A few hours ago, she’d been confident in her decisions. But now… _now_ she wasn’t so sure. Maybe this was the wrong course of action.

The streetlamps had already been lit by the time she’d stumbled onto her home street, flames flickering idly in their glass cages. Between the growing lateness of the hour, the rain, and the haze of coal smoke that coated Bowerstone like thick, suffocating mist, the evening was dark and dismal. She could barely see her hands as she fumbled for her house key and tried to unlock the door of a terraced house without dropping anything. Home. The hall was warm and she hurried to close the door behind her. The lights in the sitting room were lit, but, as her dog, Nero, trotted happily out of it, she didn’t want to risk being pulled into a conversation with anyone who might have been lurking in the other room. Not just yet.

She hurried up the stairs, struggling to keep from dropping the heavy bags in her hands and navigate the incline at the same time. She burst into her darkened bedroom. With a concerned frown, she carefully set the bags down and made sure nothing was leaking before turning back to the door. Nero stood just out of the doorway, offering a tentative tail wag when he looked at her.

“Come on, Nero,” she beckoned in a whisper, gesturing for him to join her. It took a painfully long time before he finally waggled his tail and padded into the room. With a deep sigh, she closed and locked the door behind him. For the first time all day, she slumped in relief. Tension flowing out of her as she absently scratched Nero’s floppy ears with one hand and twisted the key to turn up the gaslights in the room. Dark wooden furniture and pale blue wallpaper slowly became visible. _No time to relax_. Nodding to herself, she tossed her cloak onto a navy armchair and moved to rummage through her shopping.

Books filled one of the bags and she placed them impatiently on her bedside table without looking closely at them. The next bag was where things got odd.

“Nero, knapsack,” Victoria murmured, gesturing towards her armoire. The collie responded with a gentle huff and trotted dutifully over to the wardrobe as Victoria started carefully removing things from her bag.

Herbs and a crumpled page of notes. Candles with sigils carved deeply into their bodies. A thick-walled glass bottle she hoped would be useful, if only because she’d spent a good deal of her personal savings on it. A bundle of wrapped leather and a small cardboard box wrapped in a handkerchief rolled out last. She placed everything but the cardboard box into the knapsack once Nero had delivered it to her feet and tried to pack it as well as possible. She hesitated, removed the leather bundle and tucked it under her mattress.

All that was left was to store this somewhere until—her eyes fell on the cardboard box and she froze.

_The so-called-seeress at the store had picked up her tarot cards and began shuffling them before Victoria could stop her. She instantly regretted being honest about her intentions. The woman’s expression had fallen the moment Victoria’s words had left her mouth._

_“Please don’t,” Victoria had tried to protest, but it was too late. She couldn’t stop the seeress from shuffling her cards, but she refused to sit down and tolerate it. She tried to inch out the door with her purchases, but the woman had started drawing her cards and Victoria found herself too curious to move._

_Three draws, three cards on the counter. The seeress turned them over with careful hands: a golden chariot, a nude couple intertwined, and a bound, blindfolded woman surrounded by swords. The last card was upside down. She couldn’t breathe._

_“You are on a quest to recover what was lost—what is believed to never return.”_

_Victoria stared, eyes wide as the older woman spoke. She wasn’t sure whether to watch the woman’s face or her hand as she brought it to rest atop the Chariot._

_But the woman was still speaking: “And yet you’ve come here for guidance and help. You believed with enough help, you could find your loved one and bring them back to you—” the blind woman moved her hand from the Chariot to the Lovers— “and now you shall.” Her expression had creased with concern, a tremor running through her hands as she moved to tap the Eight of Swords and quickly withdrew her hand. “Or you’ll have the chance. It will be for naught. After many trials, you_ will _fail. That which you treasure will be lost. Do not do this.”_

It was too late, though. Victoria had made up her mind ages ago. She _had_ to do this. Maybe the seeress had understood, at least in part. She’d scooped her cards into their box and stuffed them into Victoria’s bag with the promise they would be helpful. Victoria just didn’t see _how_.

A gentle knock at her door sent her jolting into action, nearly dropping her knapsack, and she fumbled to set it down before she dropped it.

“I—y-yes?” she gasped, flailing slightly. “Yes?”

“Victoria you’re—are you—are you alright?” came a hesitant voice from the hall.

“Fine! I’m fine!” she replied, squashing the tarot cards into the knapsack without really thinking about it and buckling it shut. “Did you need something?” Victoria cast a look towards her armoire, biting her lip and feeling the tug of chapped flesh as it slipped from between her teeth. Getting changed now would be a mistake; there was time. No one needed to know anything was amiss. Not yet.

Jasper hummed, though it felt almost disbelieving. Victoria winced. Jasper had been with her family longer than she’d been alive—he was more like an uncle than a butler at this point. And he always seemed to see through her when she had something to hide. _That’s going to be a problem_.

“Yes, well—” Jasper’s voice trailed off and then strengthened once more— “Walter is here. It’s a bit late, but we _hoped_ you might join us for dinner.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Very well. I shall set you a place,” he bid, brightening considerably.

She listened for the tread of his oxfords against the stairs and tried to force herself to relax. Nero whined at her from the door, thumping his tail against the hardwood floor with muted thuds of anticipation. Shaking her head, Victoria placed the knapsack in the bottom of her wardrobe, hiding it behind some of her taller shoes, and double-checked the door was closed before letting Nero out of her room. She followed him with markedly less enthusiasm as he bolted down the stairs.

Jasper and Walter were an unlikely pair of friends, as different as the night from the day. Where Jasper was lanky and elegantly poised as he served dinner, Walter was bulky and boisterous. Where Jasper thrived on order and precision, Walter always seemed to be only a step or two away from good-natured trouble. Much to the displeasure of…most of the people she knew, Victoria could relate.

“There she is!” Walter proclaimed cheerfully, expression shifting to a wide grin behind his bushy goatee. He pulled her into a warm hug as soon as she was within reach and, for the first time in a long while, she struggled to hug him back. Walter seemed too distracted to notice something was off. “At last! Sit down, sit down. Jasper’s been toddling about—you know how he frets—and—”

“I _do not_ fret,” Jasper interrupted, aiming to sound cross and failing as Victoria took her seat. “I overthink—sometimes aloud and with great speed.”

“Ah, yes, and I assume that’s why you were cooing over dinner? So you could think?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want it to burn! Imagine the waste that’d be!”

But, for all their attempted bickering, they were smiling warmly at each other as they took their seats and began tucking in to their meals.

The smile tugging at her lips felt false and uncertain as she listened to them. They sounded so jovial and carefree the more they spoke. Victoria couldn’t keep her thoughts from the three empty seats at the table. She’d almost gotten used to her parents places being empty. It had been over a year since the accident; though she’d adamantly refused to stop wearing half-mourning, she’d also come to terms with the fact she’d never see them again. They were gone. That was all there was to it.

The vacant space where Logan should have been, offering a dry commentary to counter Walter and Jasper’s friendly banter, was harder to stomach.

It had been nearly three months since the morning Logan had walked out the front door, promising to tell her about an employment opportunity that had been brought to his attention when he returned, and then never came back. The first day or two, they’d assumed the position had been granted to him and he was just very busy. But then Jasper reported Logan hadn’t been in his bed nor changed his clothes nor had he eaten any of the leftovers Jasper had left for him. None of his acquaintances had heard from him, either. There was no trace of where he’d gone. The Bowerstone Guard had tried to investigate, but had ended up shrugging and shaking their heads. If he was planning on coming back, they said, he would. Until then, there was nothing anyone could do.

Or so everyone kept saying. There _was_ something, even if Victoria was the only one who believed it would work. There’d been a line in Logan’s journal that had seemed suspicious to her. Something about having “enough information to consider a treatise with Fae”. Walter and Jasper had both been quick to point out it could be shorthand for someone’s name—possibly related to the employment he’d mentioned. But she’d never heard her brother call anyone by that name before. And then there was the list. It had been crumpled and then flattened, hidden inside a book on Logan’s bedside table. But it was odd, eerily occult considering she’d never thought Logan believed in such things, and the only part that hadn’t been crossed out was a mention of the full moon. Which had taken place the night after he’d disappeared. Which was going to happen again in two nights. She may have agreed with Jasper and Walter when they said there was a rational reason for Logan’s disappearance, but she wasn’t about to ignore an unlikely possibility in the meantime.

“Have you spoken with the museum’s curator about keeping you on a bit longer?”

It took Victoria a moment to realise Walter was speaking to her. She made an attempt to rouse herself and sit up straighter, disregarding that she’d just spent the last ten minutes absently prodding at the braised beef cheek and root vegetables on her plate with a fork. “Yes. He—uh, he said he would, but only if I continued categorising our inventory.” She shook her head. “I think he’s hoping I’ll run off and get married and he’ll be able to give the position to someone else.”

She was too busy rolling her eyes to notice the look the older men shared in response. She’d had exactly one person express an interest in marrying her: a childhood friend, Elliot. He was sweet…but she felt absolutely nothing for him. She didn’t see the point, really, in them being together. And she didn’t know how to say that to him, which had led to her awkwardly avoiding him. A stirring of guilt tugged at her gut and she pushed it away, trying to focus on the previous subject.

“I suppose it doesn’t much matter,” she murmured very quietly. “The museum pays better than most other places that will hire me.”

Walter’s chair creaked as he shifted. Victoria turned her gaze up from her plate and frowned. He looked almost guilty. Regretful. _I’m not going to like this, am I?_

“Speaking of payment, I had a chat with the bank.”

 _Oh_.

“Is this really an appropriate topic for dinner?” Jasper interrupted, disapproving. Walter immediately apologised and fell silent.

Victoria didn’t see the point in _not_ talking about it. Despite Jasper’s best efforts, she was well aware they were at risk of losing the house. They’d been for a while now. Logan had had to quit his work to move back to Bowerstone when their parents died and the position he’d been previously guaranteed had been filled when he arrived. Things had been slowly worsening ever since. The staff had been let go one at a time until only Jasper remained and they were running out of heirlooms to sell.

Suspicion flitted through her mind, leaving a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. Was that the real reason Logan had left? She’d never considered her brother a coward before, but maybe there wasn’t some strange, supernatural reason for his disappearance. Maybe he’d just panicked and ran. The thought turned her stomach as though she were ill.

With a shaky breath, she pulled the napkin from her lap and set it down beside her plate. The scrape of her chair as she stood cut through the gentle clink of cutlery far too loud to let her appear nonchalant. “Sorry, I—” she paused, shaking her head— “I’m just not very hungry anymore.”

“ _Victoria_ ,” Jasper began a little too sharply, a concerned tremor shaking his voice as he started to rise.

She gestured placatingly and hurried from the room. Walter’s voice caught her as she left the room: “Let her go, Jasper,” he said gently. “You can’t protect her from the world forever.”

No. No, he couldn’t. And maybe it was time she accepted it, too. If she wanted to find out the truth of what happened to her brother, she was going to have to take matters into her own hands. And no one else in what little remained of her family was going to stop her.

~ * ~

The problem with almost-knee length hair was braiding it, Victoria had long since decided. And the problem with braiding it was that, in times like these where lying still was essential, the feel of the plait pressing into her back was uncomfortable and made her want to move about.

Walter had gone home an hour or so ago—she’d watched him leave from her bedroom’s window seat before hurrying to dress for bed and lying down to feign sleep. She’d been listening to Jasper pottering about ever since. The creak of the house as he moved about, the light patter of raindrops against the window panes, and the rustle of leaves from the trees on the street were like a lullaby, attempting to trick her into sleep. The petulant thought that she didn’t _want_ to sleep helped keep her awake almost as well as the anxiety that was making her heart pound in her ears.

Nero was little more than a warm shadow pressed against her knees, head atop her thighs. He had no inclination to stay awake and was content to sleep hard enough for them both. Occasionally kicking at her or sighing. With as minimal movement as possible, she’d reach out to stroke his ears and the back of his neck. Sometimes he’d nuzzle against her in his sleep; tail wagging slightly in response.

The night, already quiet as it was, stilled further as the hour grew. The shadows of her room had taken on an eerie, faintly menacing quality. As though spectres lurked within the gloom; watching, waiting. She kept her brown eyes trained on the window. Watching the very faint haze of light from the gaslights below as it glanced off the raindrops. The stairs creaked gently as Jasper began his ascent upstairs. Against her will, Victoria jumped, earning an annoyed huff from Nero who was quickly back to sleep. Victoria hurriedly closed her eyes, pretending she was asleep as well, as the door to her room creaked open.

Even with her eyes closed, the glow of Jasper’s candle was harsh and painful. She forced herself not to squint or peek at him, willing him to close the door and go to bed. He did neither. After a long moment, he sighed mournfully.

“I don’t think of you as a child,” he said, though she wasn’t sure if he was thinking aloud or if he was speaking to her. “I do not intend to keep you from the world, I—” a deep breath— “I don’t want to lose you as I did your parents and Logan.”

 _You won’t_ , she thought desperately, struggling to keep up the charade. She wanted to hug him. To promise she didn’t take his concern as a lack of care or desire to let her be. But she couldn’t. If she got up now, they’d spend too long talking and it was going to be difficult enough without feeling guilty about lying to his face.

He seemed to hesitate a moment before closing the door. She waited until she heard the shuffle of his steps in the small bedroom next door before venturing to open her eyes. Though she couldn’t see him well, she could feel Nero staring at her in the darkness. _What?_ she thought, wondering how a dog could make something as simple as a stare feel accusatory.

It was another couple hours before she felt confident enough that Jasper was asleep for her to creep out of bed.

Fumbling slightly, she lit a candle and set it as far from the door as she could possibly manage. She couldn’t help but be glad the August air was warm enough that she didn’t need to wrap up in a blanket as she quietly stepped up to her tiny desk. Her pocket watch and house key sat atop a messy stack of letters. She slid the key onto the watch’s chain and then draped them around her neck—the watch settled, cold and softly ticking, against her sternum. Nero watched with apparent fascination as she opened her wardrobe’s doors and began retrieving items. First the knapsack, carefully laid out on her bed, and then boots.

Victoria paused, frowning into the depths of her armoire. She’d been hoping her favourite trouser suit had been repaired and laundered, but it wasn’t where it usually was. And most of her skirts were far too long to sneak out easily in. _The polonaise will do_. She decided she’d worry about the logistics of all-but running across town in ankle-length skirts later. It was half-til midnight. She needed to hurry.

Her stockings were the first to go on, followed by her boots—she pulled the small bundle of leather out from under her mattress and slid it into her left boot, hoping she wouldn’t need it. She had to tuck her watch back in after lacing up her corset. Glancing towards the door as if it could tell her if Jasper had heard her, she shrugged on her gown. Black silk and ivory lace—it was one of her nicer dresses, but it was far too severe for daily wear. _At least it looks nice_ , she thought, hurrying through pinning up her hair and putting on a hat. She was either going to meet a Fae and retrieve her brother tonight, or she was getting dressed for failure. Regardless, at least she’d still have her pride. Or so she hoped.

She wrapped her knapsack in her cloak and crept across the hall and down the stairs, hoping the bag wouldn’t clink and Nero wouldn’t make any noises that might wake Jasper. But the collie remained quiet and Victoria kept from falling down the stairs. Her heart pounded in her ears. Halfway to the door, she turned and crept into the kitchen for a small half-loaf of bread and the bottle she used for sneaking water into the museum. She placed both into her bag. There was a chance she’d be waiting all night. At least now she’d have a snack to help keep her awake. She also grabbed one of the picnic blankets from under the stairs and stuffed it between her bag’s material and its buckles.

Nero followed her back to the front door and sat down, ears drooping as he let out a faint whimper.

“You can’t come with me,” Victoria whispered, guilt swelling in her gut. “You have to stay here and keep Jasper safe.”

He whined, fidgeting his paws and momentarily bowing his head.

“I’ll be back soon,” she promised, swinging her cloak and bag over her shoulders so she could scratch his ears. She dropped a kiss atop his head. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He sighed and laid down, head atop his paws as though the entire world had disappointed him. She wanted to tell him to come with her, but it would have been impractical…even more so than this ordeal already was. He didn’t move from his spot as she stepped out onto the front stoop and closed the door behind her. She pulled the key from her neck and locked the door before turning to stare at the darkened street.

The first step was the hardest. She knew what she felt she had to do, but it was difficult to convince herself not to just turn around and go back to bed. _It’s too late now_. She stepped onto the street and started walking.

Bowerstone was mostly quiet. The crowds that usually filled the Market District were absent now but for a few handfuls of people. She kept her head down and tried to avoid catching anyone’s eye. Luckily, the rain had not abated and no one seemed very interested in what anyone else was doing.

She needed to get to Bowerstone Cemetery. Some of the information she’d found on Fae had said they were easiest found in barrows and burial mounds. The problem was that there were neither near Bowerstone. The only one she knew of was a couple days away by train; planning such a journey without Jasper finding out or Walter deciding to come with her would have been impossible. Fortunately, Bowerstone’s cemetery was old. And, when she finally reached it, it was also empty. The gates screeched when she pushed them open but no one came to investigate the sound. She pulled the gates closed behind her and started down the nearest path.

The oldest section was at the very back of the cemetery, at the base of a great cliff and the castle that sat upon it. The more she walked, the more over-grown the graves around her became. Brambles and long grass, wild flowers and saplings; the plants had the run of the place now. Startled chickens ran past her as she stepped over a crumbled family monument. An owl hooted dully from a nearby tree. And, despite the signs of life, she felt eerily alone. Like she was the last person in the world, with nothing but the sound of her breaths to let her know she was still alive. Victoria was beginning to wish she’d brought someone, _anyone_ , with her.

She’d never been this far into the cemetery before: where the mausoleums and graves had no names, and sometimes didn’t even have markers. Where the air felt vaguely mystical. She felt like she was being watched with every step. People liked to say Heroes were buried back here—ancient warriors who had once protected Albion. Stories for children. There were no Heroes now, and, depending on how this went, maybe there wasn’t any Will left either.

She found a mausoleum with missing doors and slipped in. One of the kists that were supposed to be within was gone, too…as were two of the walls and part of the roof. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was safe from the rain and secluded enough that she felt comfortable setting up here.

She removed the candles from her knapsack and placed them on the slab where the missing kist would have lain, positioning them a hand width or so apart. Next went the herbs, carefully spread in a figure eight around the candles—a candle in each loop of the symbol. The seeress had suggested personalising the mixture with other herbs Victoria had a preference for, adding sharply that salt would ruin the spell and was inadvisable to use, but Victoria hadn’t. She didn’t really believe this was going to work, anyway. There wasn’t much of a point in potentially ruining the ritual on the off chance it _did_ work.

Frowning deeply at the tarot cards at the bottom of her bag, she pulled out a large bottle. Honey wine to lure _something_ into responding to her summoning. _Bribing supernatural creatures into interacting with me sounds brilliant_ , she thought dryly, setting the bottle carefully down behind the candles.

There was only one thing left to do.

Hand clenched tightly on her crumpled notes, she lit a match with her free hand. Her mouth seemed to stumble over words as she read the incantation on the back of the page. The words felt strange and unpleasant. Obscene. A tingling sensation erupted under her skin and she struggled to light the candles and keep speaking. This felt… _wrong_. Like she wasn’t meant to be doing it. Like _no one_ ever should.

But the metaphorical door was open now. There was no point in leaving without finishing what she’d started. Victoria blew out her match, dropping it on the stone floor, and finished the incantation.

The sigils carved into the candles’ flesh seemed to momentarily glow…and immediately both were extinguished.

Nothing happened.

She sat there in the dark, confused. Waiting. Her boot heel was pressing into her thigh and she shifted, trying to get more comfortable. Nothing moved but the haze of candle smoke curling towards the sky.

 _This was a waste of time_ , she thought. Her shoulders dropped as the tension left her body. Of course it hadn’t worked. She’d expected so, but that didn’t change the fact that she was…disappointed. Nor did it change the fact that she was now going to have to spend the night here to prove a point to herself.

Shaking her head, she pulled her bag back onto her lap and dropped the notes back into it. She mentally berated herself as she set about organising her bag. Logan’s vanishing was something mundane, then. And, as she reached into the bag for her blanket, she decided that was the worst part of this whole ordeal. There’d probably never be an answer.

A soft creak. The shifting of leather against stone.

Victoria froze.

Almost absently, a voice she’d never heard before mused: “Oh, how _very_ rude. It appears I’m _late_. Tell me, were you waiting for _me_?”


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, but I wanted to finish DoV before posting this and, also, Reaver is surprisingly difficult to write when I have to analyse every single thing he says. Will a creepy, pretty boi make up for the wait?

Her heart pounded in her throat and ears, filling her head with a dull rushing noise. Her blanket slipped from her fingers, back into the depths of her bag, and she realised she didn’t _want_ to look up at whomever had spoken. Her rational mind tried to convince her it was just a gravedigger trying to spook her, but the voice was far too pleasant. Eloquent and high-born. The last time she’d heard words so posh-ly and arrogantly spoken at her, her family’s carriage had been accosted by a gentleman of the roads—of course, her father and Walter had been between them at the time and, in the end, her father had been quicker with a blade than the highwayman had been with a pistol, but that was beside the point. The thought that some manner of robber had followed her into the cemetery was terrifying. She was, she could admit to herself, truly afraid.

 _You wanted to summon something_ , she reminded herself. _You tried to open a door for_ anything _. Just because it_ sounds _human, that doesn’t mean it_ is _human._ She licked her lips and tried to calm herself. _You’re not helpless here; but you_ do _need to get up._ Almost casually, she felt in her bag to make sure everything she needed was there before finally looking up.

She’d expected some greasy little man dressed in a potty attempt at looking like the nobility—someone she could immediately judge the character of. Instead her eyes fell on what was quite possibly the _prettiest_ man she’d ever laid eyes on.

“You _were_ , weren’t you?” he enquired, reminding her that he’d asked her a question in the first place. He didn’t seem to mind her lack of response, however; if anything, he seemed quite at ease chattering to himself. He lounged atop the remaining kist—a smirk curving his lips and tousled curls falling into his kohl-rimmed eyes—looking as comfortable and at home as if he’d been there all week. She’d never seen a more apt definition of trouble presented before her.

Finally noting his words, she decided to play along. Slowly buckling her knapsack, she nodded once.

Her acknowledgement appeared to please him. He uncrossed his legs and dropped, barefoot, to stand on the mausoleum’s dusty floor. He’d dressed in a soft-looking leather suit that seemed to shimmer slightly with every move he made and she tried not to focus on just how tightly it clung to his lithe frame. His smirk widened to a mischievous grin. Arms spread wide, he bowed with a showman’s flourish—his jacket, unbuttoned, gaped open at the movement to reveal there was nothing beneath but his bare chest. As the sparse light shifted, a reddish-gold glow, like the eye shine of a cat, occasionally illuminated his eyes.

“You _wanted_ me,” he declared far too invitingly. “Here I am.”

There was something unsettling about him that she couldn’t name, but it had nothing to do with his appearance. He felt like the times when Nero, or her mother’s cat when it had lived, would stare down a dark hallway and start growling at nothing. A sliver of icy suspicion would slip down her spine and bury itself in her gut until she had to move so she couldn’t look down it. And, though the hallway always looked perfectly fine, there was suddenly something _wrong_ about it. Like it didn’t quite belong to this world. Like walking too far down it would dispense her into another reality far removed from her own. In a way, this man felt similar. But also a thousand times worse. People weren’t _supposed_ to feel like they’d been chipped from one reality and hastily tacked into another. People weren’t supposed to make you feel like getting too close to them would result in everything you knew vanishing forever.

 _But you don’t know that he’s people_ , she reminded herself, sliding her bag over her shoulders. Resisting the temptation to run all the way back home, she stood up and, as evenly as she could manage, enquired: “What _are_ you?”

“Now that’s more than a _little_ trite, isn’t it? Especially as far as first meetings go. _You_ summoned me—” he gestured towards the burnt out candles and Victoria noted the honey wine had vanished— “why don’t you try asking what _really_ is on your mind, hmm?”

“Are you a Fae?” she asked, words dropping nearly to a whisper. It sounded almost accusatory, but it was too late to change her words now.

He inclined his head, once again seeming pleased with her response. However, when his eyes met hers, she found she couldn’t look away.

“Oh, but my manners are _abhorrent_. Forgive me; I never _did_ ask: _why_ did you summon me? What do you intend to ask of me? Shall I guess?” His voice had taken on a carefully leading quality, as though he were trying to push her into making a decision without thinking it through as he added: “Gold—more than you could ever possibly imagine? What about jewels—an ocean of them at your feet; every size, shape, and colour that has ever existed?”

“I—” Her mind had gone horrifically blank in light of his words. She couldn’t think with them flowing through her head, drowning all semblance of rational thought. She shook her head in a futile attempt to clear it as he drew closer.

“And what of admirers of your beauty? You’d never want for anything again. All you need do is ask and you could have _anything_ you’ve ever dreamed.” He reached for her then, long-nailed fingers just out of reach of her neck, and his voice dropped to a purr as he concluded: “Or is it _power_ you seek?”

She flung herself backwards, trying to put distance between her and him…and his poison words. She didn’t know what she would do if he touched her—her resolve was crumbling by the second—but she knew she wanted him to stop. _Needed_ him to stop. Gods help her if he didn’t; his voice was like warm caramel—flowing over her to coat every fibre of her being in a thick, sticky residue that somehow made her feel filthy despite its sweetness. A part of her wanted to hear more, but the more he spoke the more she felt ill. Like she didn’t know what was real anymore. Her thoughts were slipping from her like grains of sand. In a panicked effort to keep from accidentally agreeing with something she neither wanted nor understood, she hastily blurted: “ _My brother_.”

Whatever he’d been expecting, that _clearly_ wasn’t it. Giving her the distinct impression that she’d ruined his well-practiced routine, he pulled back his hand and crossed his arms over his chest. Frowning at her, he tilted his head slightly. “If your brother is _dead_ —”

“ _He’s not!_ ” she insisted, cutting him off. With little regard for the disapproval that flared across his angular features, she amended hesitantly: “Or…I—I don’t _think_ he is.” She hadn’t really considered it, actually. That Logan might not still be alive. She hadn’t allowed herself to entertain the thought that he would never come home again. In part, it was fear—she didn’t think she could handle not having her brother around. But, mostly, it was just a feeling she had. Somewhere deep down, she could feel he was alive. Maybe in danger, but alive. And that was all the proof she needed. Raising her head as defiantly as she could manage, she said, “He’s alive. He went looking for you— _your people_ three months ago.”

His posture seemed to change. Almost too quickly for her to register, a flurry of emotions rushed over his features—surprise, at first, swiftly followed by excitement and intrigue. He seemed to settle for smugness as, once more, he stepped towards her. “Well, well,” he murmured almost delicately. With over-emphasised slowness, he began to circle her—reaching out as if to trail his fingers up her arm. “He hoped you would not come.”

His fingers were just far enough away that she couldn’t feel them or even the heat of his body against hers, but she could feel herself reacting nonetheless. A faint tug beneath her flesh to close the distance between them.

“But here you are!” he was saying and she made an effort to focus on his words and not on his actions. “ _Logan’s sister_ ; how _delightful_ …though I can’t say he’ll be pleased.”

“Is he alright?” Her heart leapt; elation and relief swelling within her until she thought she might cry. She was _right_. He was _alive_. Now, all she had to do was figure out how to get him back. “What happened to him?”

“He’s in the king’s castle.”

 _But I thought they were ruled by queens?_ The thought rose, unbidden, in the back of her mind. She hadn’t done as much research on the Fae as she knew she ought to have—most of what she’d found had more to do with revelries and parties, not outright contacting them—but she did recall that bit. It struck her as odd, but…she’d worry about it later. She had more important things to be worried about. Like why he, when he finally came to a stop before her, wasn’t offering any further information on her brother. “Can I have him back?”

He made a show of considering it before: “Hmm…I’m afraid that _won’t_ be possible. Your brother…how do I put this—” he paused before continuing on without a single trace of sympathy, genuine or otherwise— “ _lost_. He failed his challenge and now his freedom is forfeit.”

“But we need him here!”

“The contract was binding; the rules cannot be changed.”

All of her previous happiness had evaporated to be replaced by a steadily simmering fury. No. _No_ , she would not accept this. She refused to believe Logan was beyond her reach. So this…this… _King_ had her brother? _Very well_. She would find him and…and…she didn’t know. She didn’t know what she could possibly do to bring Logan back. She didn’t even know how she’d get to him. It was as though an anchor had been tied around her heart. Inability was a hell she hadn’t realised existed with such strength.

Victoria hadn’t been aware that frustrated tears had managed to sneak out, rolling down her cheek, until he reached out and wiped them away with his thumb. She didn’t even have time to register that his warmth-less touch hadn’t actually _felt_ like a touch—more like the odd sensation of water’s surface tension against her skin—before he pressed the digit to his lips. Pausing as though contemplating the flavour. _What the…?_

With an emphatic hum, he gestured vaguely. “There is… _one_ possible way you might retrieve him.”

“Tell me.”

He frowned. Glanced away from her. And she couldn’t tell if he was reconsidering or just displeased when he finally added, “Perhaps not. It’s unlikely you’ll complete it—humans are… _so fragile_ , after all.”

“ ** _No_** ,” she snapped, anger rising once more. “No, no, _no_ , you don’t understand: I _am not_ fragile and I will do _anything_ it takes to free my brother. _Tell me what it is_.”

There was a look in his eye she didn’t understand, but he seemed far too pleased by her eagerness. Without hesitation, he replied, “The King’s Gauntlet. Solve the trials armed only with what you carry; survive to reach the castle as champion and… _perhaps_ your brother will go free.”

That sounded too simple—too good to be true—though she knew that couldn’t be the case. Things that sounded simple rarely were. And this gauntlet had to be difficult or it wouldn’t be worth such a high price. The difficulty didn’t matter, though. She wasn’t _prepared_ for such a thing. She wasn’t dressed for it; she didn’t have the equipment…and what about Walter and Jasper? What would they say about her possibly being gone Avo-knew-how-long? How would they feel about her seemingly vanishing? And he’d specified “survive”…what if she couldn’t? Worst of all, what if this king refused to acknowledge her completion of his trials? What would she do then?

The ideal way to play this would have been to go home, talk it over as best as possible with Walter and Jasper, prepare for any eventuality, and then summon the King and challenge him properly. But…Walter and Jasper had already proven they didn’t believe in the existence of the Fae. And something in this stranger’s tone suggested this was a one-time deal. He wasn’t going to come and broker it again. She had no choice.

“What are the trials?”

“There’s no point in telling you. Particularly when I could _show_ you…if you’d be so generous to _give_ me your name?”

 _Oh…well done, you_. She fought the urge to smile humourlessly. The seeress had mentioned this as Victoria had left her shop: don’t give the Fae your full name. The seeress hadn’t said _why_ , but she’d made it sound important and, if this man was going out of his way to ask for it so carefully, there had to be an important reason. The problem was that she didn’t know how much of his name Logan had given. If it had just been his first, then she saw no problem saying hers. If he’d given his full name…would knowing her surname count as her giving her full name?

“I don’t think I should give you that.”

She expected a dark look to pass over his face at her refusal. Instead, he smiled, almost friendly. “A trade then; what we’re called? Nothing gained or lost either way. I answer to Reaver.”

And _that_ didn’t sound like an ill omen _at all_. She swallowed a rush of anxiety. “You may call me Victoria.”

He pointed her toward the entrance to the mausoleum. It was shrouded in darkness, but the hour was late and there was nothing special about it that she could see. Stepping up to it, she realised she couldn’t see the distant lights of Bowerstone. _That’s strange_. She glanced back at him once, confused, and crossed over the threshold at his prompting, feeling exceptionally foolish all the while.

Immediately, Victoria was buffeted by icy wind. Eyes stinging, she raised a hand to protect her face and stumbled forward another couple steps. _When did it get so cold?_ It wasn’t until the wind died down that she could see they were no longer in the cemetery.

They stood atop a steep, snow-covered hill overlooking a vast valley. Trees dotted the landscape in thick clusters. A castle stood far in the distance but, even with the light of the over-sized almost-full moon, she could barely make out more than its general outline. It was surrounded by an enormous, dark mass. At first she thought it was water, but she couldn’t see the tell-tale ripple of moonlight reflecting off the waves. _Ice?_ Again, it didn’t seem to have a reflection. In the end, it didn’t really matter. It was between her and the castle. She would undoubtedly find out what it was soon enough.

“It doesn’t look so far,” she murmured to herself, trying to assuage the feeling in her gut that was beginning to scream that she wasn’t going to be able to do this. It didn’t really work. She was shivering, breaths rising in clouds of mist, and all she could think was that it was going to be a very long way to walk in the snow.

“It’s further than you think,” Reaver informed her from too close behind her. There was an edge of malice to his voice that hadn’t been there previously.

Alarmed, she whirled to face him. The friendly smile he’d worn was gone, something slightly more sinister in its place. He no longer seemed interested in putting her at ease. Instead, he kept to the shadows of the oak trees they stood under; watching, _studying_ , her. It was eerie. And she wasn’t sure which she thought was worse: the almost hypnotic way he’d tried to lure her in or… _this_. It didn’t matter, though. She was here and there was no sign of the door they’d passed through. She had a gauntlet to run.

“All I need to do is get to the castle?”

“Conquer the trials,” he repeated very slowly, giving her the distinct impression he was calling her an ignoramus, “survive to reach the castle, and perhaps your brother will be freed.”

 _Right_. She’d gotten that the first time. But where, and what, were the trials? All she saw was snow and a very long walk ahead of her. Nothing that looked remotely trial-like, if she ignored that she wasn’t dressed for winter weather.

“Don’t be too hasty to discount it,” Reaver added, stepping up to her side and once again taking care not to touch her. “Much better than you have fallen in the labyrinth.”

 _Laby—_ oh _. Oh no._ She turned her gaze down to the shadowed mass at the base of the hill and stared at it with new understanding. Alarm coursed through her. So the trial was a labyrinth…and she had a terrible sense of direction without a map. _Why didn’t I bring Nero with me?_ Her dog was much better at finding where they needed to go. Again, she told herself that it didn’t matter. She _was_ going to reach the castle, and her brother, no matter how long it took to get there. No matter the difficulty. She wasn’t leaving without him.

Attempting to sound more confident than she felt, she briskly enquired: “Is that all?”

Head tilted, he watched her a moment. With an almost casual flick of his wrist, he pulled a pocket watch from thin air. “In your world, it’s now Friday. The first phase of the full moon is tonight, tomorrow it will be at its zenith, and the day after will be its end. You have until moonset on Sunday—which will be at precisely five minutes after six in the morning—to reach the castle. One minute after, you’ll be out of time. Fall, your brother remains here forever.”

Staring at the distant castle, she murmured: “I won’t fail.”

There was no answer.

Surprised by the lack of commentary on her ego, Victoria turned…and found he was gone. Completely gone, as if he’d never been there to begin with. The only set of footprints in the snow were her own. And she had no idea where he’d gone.

The problem was, now that he _was_ gone, there was nothing to distract her from the terrible feeling that she was in over her head. That she could not, and would never be, able to do this. She was crumpling on the inside like a cheap piece of tissue paper. It was getting harder to resist the urge to put her head in her hands until she felt better. It was cold. And there was a lot to this she didn’t understand. But she had accepted the gauntlet and now there was no turning back. Still, she had one question she would have liked to ask before she got started: how was the King going to know she’d accepted his trials? Shouldn’t she have worked out the details with him first? Unless….

A magpie gave a sharp, slightly squeaky caw from one of the oak trees, cutting through her thoughts. Victoria shook her head and tried to ground herself. _Right, I can worry about all this later. First…let’s just focus on getting down to the labyrinth itself._

She pulled her pocket watch from beneath her bodice and angled it slightly to catch the moonlight. 12:47am. _More than enough time_.

The hill rose quite high, but the descent was gentle and even. Steady, one could say. Nothing impeded her journey, not even a boulder or a bush. As she’d thought, it was turning out to be a straight path into the valley. A part of her was almost disappointed and she chided herself for it. _You’ve no idea what this king has at the ready. You could be dead in the morning._ Even though she knew it was true, she didn’t want to believe it.

The labyrinth’s walls rose before her as she approached, much higher than she’d expected them to be. Bleak, grey walls that looked like they belonged to a fortress. They’d towered over her even before she’d reached an entrance. She considered briefly searching around the edges of the labyrinth for a better, more straight-forward-looking entrance, but quickly dismissed it. The gap in the wall before her was shadowy and foreboding. However, there was no guarantee any of the other paths would be easier. Or worth the effort to look for them. And how much time would she waste looking for them? What if this was the only entrance and she wasted all her time skirting ‘round the outside? _The king must have a twisted sense of humour to build this around his castle_ , Victoria thought, slipping inside.

It wasn’t as dark as she’d expected inside. Dim, yes, but the stone around her seemed to glow in the moonlight. There was no path to her left, so she followed it right and turned when the path did. There were no forks yet. Nothing making her choose between one path or another. The passage would carry on straight ahead for a long stretch, turn once or twice, and then the path was straight once more.

At first, she thought it was easy. Nothing stopped her. Nothing jumped out at her. This was far easier than some of the garden mazes she’d wandered out in the country. And she didn’t even have to worry about mud or thorns thus far!

However, after an hour or so of aimless wandering, she started worrying that it was _too_ easy. Maybe this was the wrong path, after all. What if it led to a dead end? What if she wasted hours and hours walking this path only to have to turn back and go another way? The echo of her steps around her was already making her nerves feel worse than ever.

“This can’t be it,” she murmured after another simple turn. “Surely I missed another turn off earlier.”

Someone giggled in a high-pitched, child-like voice. Alarmed, Victoria whirled about and immediately froze. The voice’s owner was nowhere to be seen, but neither was the path she’d come from. In its place was a short stretch of wall flanked by two identical exits that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Looking behind her, she discovered the previous path forward was also gone. _Left or right? Left or right?_ In theory, she was closer to the right, which meant—

A flicker of blue light wavered down the left path—it resembled a will-o’-the-wisp and she stared at it blankly for almost a full minute before, rationality be damned, she ran after it. As she drew near, it vanished with another giggle. Frowning at herself, she cursed under her breath. _Great idea, you utter imbecile. Let’s just run after lights because they weren’t there a moment ago!_ She didn’t even need to turn around to know the previous path had changed.

And then the whispers started. Childish, bell-like voices speaking too low for her to hear. They spoke en masse and she couldn’t figure out where they were coming from. There was no one else in the passage with her. It finally occurred to her to look up, but all she saw was ice glittering at the top of the walls.

Another light burst into being further down the path, bobbing slightly in the non-existent breeze.

“I know you’re trying to play games with me!” she called to it.

Another giggle and the will-o’-the-wisp vanished and reappeared further down the path. Victoria sighed. If she turned back now, there was no telling how much the path had changed. If she continued forward…stories said will-o’-the-wisps led travellers astray. “Off the beaten path” was how Walter had always worded it. Maybe…maybe that was a good thing. Reaver had indicated this was supposed to be an extremely difficult challenge. The path that seemed straightforward was probably more likely to get her killed. _Follow it until it feels wrong_ , she decided. Not that anything about this felt remarkably _right_ , but she had the awful feeling it was going to get a lot worse.

Other than herself and the light, the path was eerily empty. Snow blanketed the ground, untouched, and there wasn’t a single other sign of life that she could see. It was…creepy. And uncomfortable. She tried to focus on Logan—how much she missed him and how nice it would be to see him again—but she was struggling to find enthusiasm after walking down path after identical path. The only thing that seemed to work was chiding herself. How foolish she’d been to not take this seriously—to assume the Fae weren’t real and to have not planned accordingly. For all that she’d been frustrated with Walter and Jasper for not agreeing with her, she’d been little better. She’d treated this like a game. And now she was alone in the dark, exhausted and afraid.

 _I should have slept earlier_ , she thought after what felt like a mile of walking. _Should have brought Nero, too._

Wrapped up in thinking and self-pity, she stumbled upon the courtyard. It was almost as though she’d stepped into a moderately-sized stone box. A hawthorn tree dominated the centre of the space, roots creeping free of the stone floor. It still bore its autumn leaves, covered in a thick layer of ice as though the temperatures had dropped in such a short time, the tree hadn’t been able to react. _Strange_ , she thought idly, stepping further into the courtyard.

The whispers returned and she thought she caught the words _“safe here”_ , but they faded before she could gather up the courage to ask for clarification. The will-o’-the-wisp had vanished for what seemed to be good this time. She was alone.

She certainly seemed safe here—actually, now that she thought on it, there were a couple spots at the tree’s roots that would have made a good place to rest until morning. But the moon was setting already, making it impossible to see what time her watch had. And she wanted to reach Logan as swiftly as possible; the longer she was here, the more of a chance that something would happen to slow her down. However, as she checked the walls of the courtyard, she discovered there were no routes out of it. And the path she’d entered from had vanished.

“That’s not fair!” she fumed, the sound of her own voice startling her. The walls were too smooth and too high to climb; the tree’s branches didn’t extend far enough for her to use them to climb over or onto a wall, either. _Now where am I meant to go?_ For a very brief second, she considered calling for Reaver. He’d brought her here; perhaps he was still keeping an eye on her. Then she decided that was a terrible idea. For starters, she didn’t trust him and wasn’t certain he would put her on the right path. Additionally…would he even come if she called? This was a gauntlet; she doubted any additional assistance would be allowed.

Stubbornly refusing to give up just because she was stuck, she circled the courtyard twice more before finally accepting her circumstances and petulantly sitting down beneath the tree. Her bustle cut into her thighs and hips. She shifted it so it collapsed properly before pulling her bag from her shoulders. _I’m not going to sleep_ , she told herself as she retrieved her blanket and wrapped it around herself. After a sip of water from the bottle she’d brought, she unpinned her hat, set it on a root beside her, and turned her face towards the sky to wait for morning.

She was asleep within moments.


	3. III

She awoke to the feeling of eyes watching her.

Slowly regaining consciousness, she initially assumed it was Nero trying to silently will her to get up for breakfast. And then she remembered the previous night—her chat with Reaver, accepting the gauntlet, and following the will-o’-the-wisp through the dim passages of the labyrinth. Her spine stiffened. Nero wasn’t there. So…if he wasn’t watching her, then who was? Alarmed and expecting some horrible monster, her body jolted, her eyes flew open, and—

“ _Oh!_ It’s you,” she remarked, the urge to flee fading by the second.

The smile Reaver gave her was cool and somehow calculating. “ _Me_.”

It was strangely difficult to look at him this morning. The early morning sun was over-bright and glaring as it began to peek over the labyrinth’s solemn walls. The ice and snow all glittered in the bright light. He almost seemed to be surrounded by a halo. And then she realised that the frost wasn’t the only thing glittering. He’d changed clothes: gone was the soft, dark leather of the previous night and, instead, he had donned breeches and a doublet that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a manuscript about the Dark Times. It was his cloak that kept catching her eye—made of heavy material and a shade of blue that was _only just_ lighter and more saturated than the colour of his eyes, she’d initially assumed it was beaded or sequinned. However, as he shifted, she realised the assumption was wrong. Every inch of material was encrusted with sapphires, sending bright pinpricks of light cascading in every direction. It was…painfully distracting. She couldn’t decide if she wanted one for herself or if she loathed the gaucheness of it entirely—or if she was simply amazed he could stand under the weight of all those jewels.

She struggled to bring her attention back to his face as, saccharine sweet, he enquired: “How _was_ your nap?”

In the midst of rolling up her blanket, Victoria felt her lips twitch as though she might frown. It may not have been the worst sleep of her life, but it certainly hadn’t been comfortable. In the few hours she’d slept, all she’d had were nightmares; visions of a terrible beast stalking her through darkness and something that might have been trees. Now that she was awake, she was aware that her corset had ridden up in her sleep and now sat uncomfortably high, digging into her waist and underarms. Fortunately, her bustle hadn’t moved from where she’d shifted it. Had Jasper been here, he might have pointed out that her polonaise was wrinkled and somewhat skewed from half-laying in one position so long, but there was little she could do about wrinkles at this time. Or her undergarments—she wasn’t about to start fiddling about under her skirts with Reaver standing watch.

“I thought you’d expressed a desire to be honest about what is _really_ on our minds,” she remarked, setting her rolled blanket beside her bag and standing up. Attempting to check if the pins in her hair were still in place, she almost missed the momentary shift of his expression—features darkening as though she’d brought up a topic he loathed. _What did I say wrong?_ He’d indicated he didn’t approve of people dancing around a subject back in the mausoleum…or did he only disapprove when he wasn’t the one being spoken to?

But the moment passed before she could enquire about it and his expression had become blandly pleasant once more. “How _astute_.”

He looked her over just once—with the sort of blatant stare Victoria frequently used when pondering which book to read—before pushing off the wall and sweeping towards her. Coming to a stop before her, he amended, “And how _are_ you finding my labyrinth?”

 _Interesting._ “It’s….”

She couldn’t think of a correct way to end that observation. If her suspicions about him were correct, then telling him it wasn’t a challenge had the potential to be lethal. However, he’d probably take any attempts at bolstering his ego and insisting the labyrinth was falsely difficult as an insult. And outright insulting him seemed like a bad idea. There didn’t seem to be a right way to answer that. “It’s certainly confusing” seemed like it would be a poor joke. Most other observations she could make also seemed like given statements. And, judging by the look in his eyes as he watched her, he knew _exactly_ what she was really thinking.

There was only a few inches between their heights, but he somehow made that difference feel like several feet. Drawing herself up in an effort to seem less uncomfortable than she was, she finally replied, “It wasn’t what I expected at first, but it’s definitely impressive.”

“ _Oh, dear_ ,” he replied with overtly-faux mournfulness. Victoria felt her heart immediately sink. “I had hoped it was at least _stimulating_ for you, but this…I suppose I’ll have to _try harder_.”

Alarmed, she stepped forward. “No, _please don’t_ ; I didn’t—”

“I’m afraid I _must_ insist,” he said, any traces of sorrow vanishing. Almost roughly, he grasped her shoulders and turned her to face the wall to his right. A door had appeared there. And, though it was as innocent as any door could ever be, she didn’t want to go through it. He didn’t seem to notice. “I wouldn’t want you to get _bored_.”

Even through his gloves, his hands were warm and heavy on her shoulders and his grip was strong enough to keep her from wriggling away from him. If anything, all it did was make her apprehension worse. “If you’re trying to prove a point, you’ve succeeded.”

“I have my doubts,” he murmured against her ear. “ _Go on_ , then. Try a bit more of the labyrinth; we’ll talk… _later_.”

He released her with a light shove and she whirled about to rebuke him. It was too late. In the half-second it took for her to turn around, he’d vanished entirely. Nothing but faintly disturbed snow to prove he’d ever been there.

Scoffing, Victoria started to turn away and paused at the sight of something wavering against the snow. She bent to pick it up and frowned. It was a feather—white edged in black.

“Why do I have a feeling this is going to be infuriating?” she enquired of no one in particular before releasing the feather for the breeze to claim once more.

~ * ~

7:04am. Victoria snapped her pocket watch closed and dropped it back beneath her bodice. In the twenty or so minutes since Reaver had left, she’d made no move towards the door he’d provided her. It was almost funny, but, as frustrated as she’d been when she’d found there was no way out of this courtyard, she almost wished the door wasn’t there. It was entirely innocuous, but something about it just seemed _off_.

Sighing to herself, she tore off another bit of bread from her breakfast. The half-loaf she’d taken from the kitchen had no chance of lasting two days. At most, today and tomorrow morning—three meals—and that was only if she didn’t eat lunch today. Either way, she knew she’d be feeling shaky by the time the deadline rolled around. _Perhaps I could find a small animal or something. I still have matches; I could cook that._ That wasn’t going to be a workable plan, she quickly realised, even if one discounted her lack of cooking ability. Even if she saw something, there was no guarantee she could catch it. It wasn’t as though she’d thought to bring a pistol. In the end, she decided to keep an eye out for any berries or other edible plants that might still be alive through the frost.

Finished with her dismal meal, she rose to her feet and brushed off the few crumbs that clung to her lap. Several of the crows in the hawthorn tree above her cawed in annoyance of her sudden movement. Victoria ignored them and set about fixing her ensemble. In short order, her bustle and polonaise had been straightened to the best of her abilities. She couldn’t quite get her corset back where it belonged, but she also wasn’t about to strip down to fix it. This place gave her the unsettling feeling of being watched by someone. Or something. The thought of being even more vulnerable than she already felt wasn’t something she was willing to tolerate. In the end, she decided to leave it be.

Dawdling a bit, she set about fixing her bag and pinning her hat back in place. And then there was nothing left but the door.

It was distinctly in Gothic in style and suited the fortress-like walls as if it had always been there. She sucked in a nervous breath and slowly made her way over to it. There wasn’t even a proper doorknob, just a heavy wooden latch holding it in place. She idly considered looking for another way out of the courtyard before reminding herself that the lack of paths was the entire reason she’d stopped for the night. _Right. Here we go_.

What seemed like completely irrational fear pressed against her throat and she made herself lift open the latch before she could give into it. The door swung inward with a creak. She found herself staring into darkness.

 _Let’s get this over with_. She stepped over the threshold and tried to keep walking. At first she felt blind, stumbling over the hem of her skirts as she walked across the stone floor. She’d left the door open for light, but it had slammed shut of its own accord once she’d passed the doorway. The few seconds it took for her eyes to adjust felt like an eternity. And, just as she was beginning to make out the details of her surroundings, she turned down a passage lit by torches.

It looked like a crypt—ancient stone walls carved with crumbling arches draped with cobwebs and dust. The few torches mounted upon the walls guttered and crackled, offering very little light. Only enough to reveal the dozens upon dozens of corpses that littered the floor. Cracked bones so old the sinews holding them together were gone lay discarded beneath the bloated, mouldering bodies of more recent deaths. The air was thick with the noxiously sweet odour of rot and decay. Turning away, she pressed a hand to the wall in a feeble attempt at supporting herself and tried to keep from losing the meagre contents of her stomach. _Deep breaths. Breathe_.

It was cold. Outside, the labyrinth was chilly, but not as cold as the hills above it had suggested. In here, however, it was cold enough to start her shivering. Her breath rose in soft wisps of mist. Even the heat of the nearest torch did nothing to help warm her. It was almost as though the chamber itself wasn’t cold, but the cold walked with her…or the cold was _inside_ her. Neither thought was particularly appealing.

She attempted to steady herself and pull herself together. There was no reason to fear the dead; they could do her no harm. Whatever might be lurking in the dark far ahead, however, was another thing entirely. _Something_ had to have killed these people. And, if she was right, that something was probably still here. Why else would Reaver have so enthusiastically directed her to the door?

With trembling hands, she lifted the nearest torch free of its holdings. It was heavy, but it felt better than wandering empty handed. A flicker of light beaded atop something near her feet and she paused in her attempt at turning away. One of the mostly decomposed bodies heaped against the wall was armed and armoured. It was tempting— _disgusting_ , but tempting. She was…uncertain. The bundle of leather in her boot held a small silver dagger within it, but she didn’t trust that she could reach that in a fight. And, even if she did, it didn’t have much range….

_Oh, this is going to be bad._

Temporarily replacing the torch upon the wall, she knelt down and began attempting to remove the corpse’s belt. Gagging, she tried to keep focused on the task and not the smell. There were probably other dead men here that were armed—possibly better armed than whomever this person had been—but she wasn’t about to go digging through the bodies. Not after this. Tugging hard, she pulled the belt free and tried to ignore how it had cut into the corpse’s swollen, maggot-eaten flesh. A rapier with an elegantly wrought hilt and a matching parrying dagger hung from the belt. She pulled both free one at a time for inspection and was pleased to find that, despite needing a good cleaning, both blades and their sheaths were in good enough order. The belt, however, was another thing entirely. Warped with _fluids_ and mildew, it was damaged to the point she didn’t want to use it.

Grimacing all the while, she attempted to scavenge for a bit more gear. Once she’d acquired a new belt, a spaulder, a vambrace, and a gauntlet, she gave up. It was just…too much. Too disgusting. If she kept searching, she _would_ vomit and then she’d be in real trouble.

The armour, once removed from its padding, was a bit too large for her, but she was also certain it was better than nothing. After they were in place upon her sword arm, she fit the rapier and dagger on their new belt and buckled it around her waist. If she ignored that her new gear had come from dead people, it wasn’t so bad. She’d begun training with sabres when she was younger and had first been introduced to the concept of fighting for her honour—Logan had implied he would do it for her, but she wasn’t about to let someone else fight her battles; not when she’d earned them herself. Both Walter and her father had helped her learn to the best of their abilities. Rapiers were something else entirely. But she understood the concept and it wasn’t as if she could now choose to be picky.

 _Okay…now we’re ready_. Somewhat steadier, she pulled the torch from the wall once more and began walking. Her footsteps echoed all around her. The torch crackled, sparks and embers dripping from it occasionally. At one point, she thought she heard the fluttering of fabric—like a banner in the breeze—but she saw nothing. Just more stone walls and dead bodies. _He must lose a lot of people to this place_ , she thought, attempting to peer past the torch light and into the darkness. _Where else are all these bodies from?_

 _Unless they aren’t all really here_.

She mentally paused, wondering where that thought had come from. They looked and felt real—they certainly _smelled_ real. It _was_ intriguing, however, and she filed it away for later use.

_“You failed them.”_

The whisper caught her as she entered into a large chamber. Stairs leading upwards were illuminated at the far end, but she couldn’t see anyone between them and herself. _There’s that sound again_ , she noted as the soft rustle of fabric caught her attention. It wasn’t heavy enough to be her own skirts; therefore…someone must’ve followed her. Something she couldn’t see. Aware she might have to fight, she slid her pack down one of her shoulders before switching the torch to her other hand.

“Hello?” she called, feeling more wary than foolish.

 _“Do you think your cries mean anything? None will come.”_ It was a woman’s voice—maternally soft but with an edge of cruelty Victoria had never heard twisted into _any_ voice before.

Victoria tossed her bag towards the stairs, barely paying attention as the leather skidded against stone. She held the torch in front of her like a sword; every time she moved, she swiped warningly at the air in an arc around her. A part of her wanted to make a run for it. The stairs looked narrow, though, and she had the sickly sensation that whatever the voice was would follow her. That maybe the stairs would lead to a dead end if she didn’t fight this thing. That Reaver wanted to see just how far she was willing to go to save Logan.

_“Are you thinking of your family? Of how you were too weak to save any them? Were you truly? Or were you just a coward?”_

Ire burned in her gut. Victoria felt a snarl twist her lips. _One more word; just one more—_

 _“_ _You are worthless; let me take your life now and put you to rest.”_

“Show yourself!” Victoria commanded, taking herself aback. She’d never heard herself use such a tone before, had never known she was capable of it.

The creature in the shadows laughed, gentle but cold. The dim light of the torch in her hand and the ones lighting the stairs seemed to darken as though a veil had been drawn between her and them. It was as though the light couldn’t find her.

All at once, a figure appeared before her. Cloaked in stained, age-spotted white robes, it almost glowed in the darkness. Startled, Victoria dropped the torch.

“What _are_ you?” she gasped, attempting to back away.

With preternatural speed and strength, the figure grasped her arms and lifted her until they were face-to-face. But, when it spoke, it was Elliot’s gentle tone she heard instead: _“Do you not know me?”_

Victoria could only answer with a whimper, thrashing in effort to get away.

_“Come with me, beloved. Succumb to my embrace.”_

Her hand found the parrying dagger and tightened around the hilt. “ _He_ is _not_ my beloved— _and neither are you._ ”

Without further preamble, she drove the dagger into the void where the creature’s face should have been.

Screams, shrieks of anguish, filled her ears; slicing through her head. She yanked the blade free and tried to wriggle away. No blood leaked from the wound, only inky streaks of darkness. The creature refused to drop her; claws tearing at her.

Just as she was beginning to make to stab it again, it threw her.

She barely had time to register that she was hurtling through the air before she hit the wall. With a clang from where her spaulder hit stone, she collapsed in a heap of crumpled skirts. She felt her hat rip free of her hair. Her back throbbed. Attempting to scrabble to her feet, she found she kept getting tangled in her skirts; her bustle alone made it hard to keep balance.

She threw herself out of the way as the creature lunged for her once more and the momentum helped propel her to her feet. She still held on to her dagger, but what she wanted was the torch. This creature, the woman in white, seemed adverse to the light. If she could get to it….

_“Join us.”_

_Not today_. Side-stepping another attempted attack, Victoria drew the rapier.

_“Do you really think your fight means anything? It is meaningless. You will be forgotten like all the others who came before.”_

She tried not to listen to the words and, instead, focused on her form. The feel of where her feet met the floor and where her hands met their weapons. _Steady_. Walter had always told her listening to an opponent talk was the precursor to losing a fight. _“Ground yourself,”_ he’d said. _“You know who you are and what you want. Don’t get lost in their petty posturing.”_ It was much harder in the moment, though.

She could hear the creature circling; could feel the cold seeping into her bones. Worse yet, she could feel a part of her that wanted to give in. She wasn’t sure if it was some manner of magic—some long-forgotten Will ability that had been left out of the legends—but she hated it all the same. So she clung to her sword and dagger and waited.

The creature appeared in front of her once more and, before it could attack, Victoria lunged forward. She felt the seams in the back of her bodice pop, pressing too tight against her skin in protest of the movement. She didn’t care. The creature wailed, slashing at her with bloodied claws. Victoria hopped back, out of reach, and immediately followed it up with as forceful of a slash as she could manage with such an ill-suited sword. The sobbing creature vanished once more.

Inching backwards, she sheathed her dagger. Her unsteady breaths filled her ears. Reaching the torch, she dipped down to pick it up with her free hand. _Now where are you?_

Victoria could still hear it sobbing; the sound echoed through the room and grated on her ears. A part of her considered making a run for the stairs. The creature didn’t seem to want to fight anymore. She was fairly certain that she’d passed this trial—that Reaver would make no attempts to bar her if she wished to go now. But she had no intention of leaving just yet. This thing had insulted her—her family and one of her best friends, as well—and she had no desire to leave before it was gone.

 _“I will bring you peace,”_ the creature all but pleaded from behind her.

Victoria whirled around. “What makes you think I _want_ peace?”

She drove the torch into the hood of the creature’s robes. They caught easily as if oiled, flames spreading to consume the creature. It flailed, panicked and struggling to get away from the agony that was swallowing it whole. Victoria made no effort to move. The shrieks clawing at her ears did nothing to sway her. And soon they stopped entirely. The creature stumbled and collapsed, now nothing more than a burning pile of empty robes.

Letting out a breath, she slid the rapier back into its sheath.

Other than the flickering of flames, everything in the crypt was perfectly still.

She’d lost her hat, but wasn’t willing to search in the darkness for it. She couldn’t tell if there were any other paths out of the chamber, but she wasn’t willing to search for _them_ , either. Her bag was still at the foot of the stairs. As far as she was concerned, she wasn’t about to possibly put herself in the path of anything else that may have been down here.

Straightening her shoulders, she started for the stairs. She stopped to pick up her bag, cradling it against her chest. And then began her ascent up the narrow, winding stone steps.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took so long to get up. Everyone's been sick over here, including my cat, or having a rough time and it's just been a mess. I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who's been reading. I know a lot of people dislike/distrust WIPs because the chance of abandonment is infamously high, but it's truly been a joy to work on something new that isn't a oneshot and to see it be well received. ^^ So thank you again, for reading and being patient with me; I hope you continue to enjoy this as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

She exited out of the crypt into clear, blinding sunlight. The cloudless sky seemed far too large now, but more welcoming than she’d ever anticipated. She was even glad to see the labyrinth’s bleak walls once more. She had half-expected Reaver to be lying in wait for her, but he was nowhere to be seen. Victoria wasn’t sure if it was a sign of Luck finally being on her side or if it was a sign that he was up to something far worse, but she was glad for the break nonetheless.

The fight with… _whatever_ that creature in the crypt was had been draining. It seemed odd, for the battle hadn’t been very long. Or even physically wearing. _Maybe that was its power_ , she thought, looking down each of the three routes that led away from where she’d come out. Choosing the one that felt right, she resumed walking. _Maybe it meant to rid me of strength until I couldn’t fight any longer_.

In a way, it was surprisingly easy to walk the passages if she just…let her mind drift. To focus on the way the labyrinth’s corridors twisted, tangled together. Anything to keep from focusing on the cacophony of thoughts echoing through her head.

She made it two turns before it all came crashing down upon her.

First came horror, rising in her throat until she thought she might be sick. She had… _she_ had _killed_ something. Cruelly, too. And she hadn’t, for a single moment, considered that there might be another way to handle it. And then came revelation. If anything, it was worse because now she _understood_.

This was _real_.

Not the real of orchestrated science pretending to be magic. Not the real of Professor Faraday’s remarkable technology that would, he claimed, _eventually_ be real. No, this was the real ancient tombs had warnings of—the real that crept into your home as mist to steal the breath of your children if you wronged it; the real that traded countless riches for a single selfless deed. The real that seemed unreal if only because it was usually confined to old fables and faerie stories. And who, in this ever-so-modern age, took seriously the ramblings of old men or stories for children?

Shaking, Victoria found herself leaning with her head against one of the labyrinth’s walls. Every breath she sucked down felt uncertain and almost painful. _Breathe. Breathe. Focus on that_. Eyes closed, she tried to follow her own advice. Slowly, her breathing levelled out, but she was having a much harder time banishing her fear.

 _So it’s real and you’re really here and there’s nothing you can do to change that. You have to keep going. At least for Logan. You understand now; you can handle it. But you can’t do anything standing here._ Berating herself helped and she was slowly able to push away from the wall and take stock of herself. Her hat was gone and her cloak was shredded to the point of being unusable as clothing. Reaching behind her, she felt two of the seams in the back of her bodice had burst. Her back throbbed as her clothing pulled against it and she was certain her skin would be covered in bruises come the morning.

Pulling her ruined cloak from her shoulders and picking up her bag from where she dropped it, Victoria tried to figure out just where she was in the labyrinth. Looking up, she could still see nothing but the sky. However, the paths seemed wider here. The snow didn’t cling as thickly to the ground. It was more like a confectioner’s sugar dusting than a proper snowfall. Grass crept up through the powder at the edges of the paths and through the cracks of aged cobblestones. It was a subtle shift from the paths she’d walked last night, and it made her wonder how much the labyrinth would change as she drew closer to the centre.

Victoria stuffed her ruined cloak into her bag, uncertain what she would do with it but hesitant to leave it behind. Her back throbbed as she pulled the knapsack over her shoulders, but she knew she couldn’t afford to carry it in her arms. If there were threats, she needed to be able to reach her sword.

Without the will-o’-the-wisps to guide her path, walking the labyrinth felt more like meandering. While she wasn’t without purpose, it was hard to focus on what the next move was. There were no immediate goals. All she could do was walk and hope it was in the direction of the castle. The problem was that, other than the frequent changes in direction and the slight difference in how much grass had decided to peek out through the snow, all the paths looked identical. For all she knew, she was just circling the edge of the labyrinth. But there was no way she could possibly check where she was and how well she was doing. Not unless she suddenly found a map or a ladder.

The only break in the repetitive scenery was the occasional courtyard. Some were filled with trees or pots of brightly coloured flowers that, by all rights, should not have been able to survive the chill; others were home to cheerfully splashing fountains and benches. Occasionally she stopped to rest and take in the small fragments of something different than she was used to.

She’d just entered into another of these plazas and stopped in her tracks. This one was larger than the others. It had been made to resemble a garden. Elaborate hedgerows had been crafted into arches and walls, mingling with well-tended beds of flowers—these, in contrast to the planters she’d seen thus far, were covered in a fine layer of ice that almost made them appear crystalline. The air smelled sweet and pleasant. Victoria couldn’t help but smile as she walked through it; this yard reminded her of places she’d visited in Millfields, of warm summers on the banks of Bower Lake and the brightly plastered manses that dotted the lake’s hills. She gave a contented hum. Somewhere behind the hedges, a fountain gently splashed a soothing song.

She followed the bends of the hedges and the winding path. Crows and magpies chattered to each other as sparrows attempted to join in from hidden branches. _Maybe I could climb one of these_ , Victoria thought, running her fingers against one of hedges as she passed it _. I don’t know if they would hold me, but I could try. What’s the harm? It’s not like—_ She cut herself off with an audible yelp.

Victoria had turned a corner, fully expecting to see a new path, only to find Reaver was waiting for her instead—leaning on an ebony cane with one hand and holding a basket of what looked like mignonette, narcissus, and nigella flowers with the other. Heart pounding, she raised a hand to her eyes in exasperation. “Avo’s teats, can you _not bloody do that_?”

“Wherever would the fun be in _that_?” he enquired with a knowing smirk.

She answered with a tired groan and shook her head. Why had she ever expected a straightforward answer from him?

He’d changed clothes once again and she wasn’t even certain she could be surprised that he had anymore. He’d dressed in the macaroni-style of the previous century—pastel green and pink that made him look like a chocolate in a fancy sweets shop—only…more so. Like the caricatures she’d seen in books. The cut of his suit dramatically flared and fitted, his powdered wig over-sized to the point of being in constant danger of falling off. He had forgone the mask of makeup usually portrayed along with the outfit…with the exception of a tiny heart painted atop a birthmark on his left cheekbone. _You enjoy the outrageous, don’t you?_ But that did absolutely nothing for her anxiety. The more outrageous he was, the more likely it would be that he would produce a trial so convoluted that she couldn’t complete it.

“A flower for your thoughts?” he probed, drawing her from her contemplation. Dropping her gaze from his attire, she saw he’d removed one of the nigella blooms from his basket and was now holding it, oh-so-invitingly, out to her.

She wasn’t willing to answer him. Her lips curled in a grim attempt at a smile. “I thought the phrase was ‘copper’— _a copper_ for your thoughts.”

“But a copper is as dull as its name suggests and just as _worthless_. Now _a flower_ …a flower has so many _more_ possibilities. So many more _meanings_.”

His smile had turned secretive and Victoria abruptly recalled her concern that his previous absence was a warning sign that he’d been plotting something. It was silly, but she couldn’t stop staring at the damned flower as if it were a serpent primed to bite her.

She swallowed and drew in a breath. “If I take it, how much will it cost me?”

“It’s a _gift_ ,” he finally replied, almost gently, after a long moment had passed. But there was a weight to his words she didn’t understand. Something implied that he wasn’t letting her in on. She had the uncomfortable feeling that “gift” meant something entirely different to the both of them and she wasn’t sure she was willing to find out the hard way.

Instead, she took a step back in wordless refusal. “I have a hard time believing you’re the sort to willingly hand out gifts, no matter _what_ they are—you aren’t the first person who comes to mind when I think of generosity.”

“How cruel!” He tossed aside his cane, not seeming to notice that it vanished in mid-air, and dropped the flower basket before taking a step towards her. He removed the wig as well, tossing it over his shoulder where it burst into a spray of snow. “I’ll have you know I’m _exceptionally_ generous.”

“ _Really?_ ” she laughed, disbelief drowning her thoughts in a wave. “What have you _ever_ done that’s generous?”

“Perhaps I should start with what I have done that was generous _for you_.”

Victoria started to reply but, before she could get more than a syllable out, he’d already begun to add sharply, raising his voice with each sentence: “By all rights, your brother is _mine_ to do with as I please until _I_ see fit to be _rid_ of him. It would have been perfectly acceptable to send you _sobbing back home_. And yet, _here I am_ , offering up a potentially _disastrous_ bounty for a girl that cannot _begin_ to fathom the extent of what she is dealing with. I have pulled you between worlds on an invitation you _hardly_ deserved. I have opened a path I would have denied far better humans _and I have done it all for you!_ ”

“ _And what?!_ ” she half-shouted, temper having reached its end less than a sentence into his rant. “Are you expecting a _fucking_ medal for being less of an arsehole than you _could_ have been?! Well, _bravo, Your Majesty_ ; it must be _exhausting_ to be _so fucking chivalrous!_ ”

She’d expected him to be taken aback by her language, as most were when she resorted to it in their presence, but he didn’t even react to it other than to narrow his eyes.

“ _No_.” His voice had gone eerily quiet, as though speaking any louder risked his self-control. “No, I _expect_ a little more respect from a girl who _begged_ and vowed she would do _anything_ I asked for a brother that is still _very much_ at risk.”

Her heart caught in her throat, stomach twisting in horror. “You _wouldn’t_ —”

“Wouldn’t I?” he replied almost innocently. A smile had started on his lips that said plainly that he knew he had her—that he had won this time.

Her breath had gone shaky. She hadn’t thought about that. Hadn’t considered that her actions might affect Logan—after all, he was no longer competing against Reaver; he should have been safe, shouldn’t he? But she was certain Reaver meant it. Strangely enough, she wasn’t panicking. Her fear had grown, yes, but it was a quiet, almost stagnate dread sitting in her gut. And all she could focus on was that she _would not_ let anything happen to Logan. She refused.

“I could refuse to play by your rules,” she said, unable to raise her voice above a whisper. “I could refuse to play at all.”

“You _could_.” A tinge of displeasure marred his victorious expression. He shifted and took a couple steps away from her, leaving no footprints behind him, before turning back with a vague gesture. “But what would be the point of continuing with this farce? If you _are_ going to quit, then _Logan_ is of no use to either of us. There’s no need to _motivate_ you if you’re not fit to continue on.” He paused delicately. “…shall I—”

“If you _think_ about hurting my brother, I’ll kill you,” she snarled, barely resisting the urge to lunge forward. To grab him, hurt him. To make him regret saying the words. But she didn’t think she could beat him in a fight. At least…not at this moment. Still, she couldn’t stop the words falling from her mouth. “ _I swear_ , I’ll—”

“ _Don’t make promises you can’t keep_ ,” he warned. “And _don’t_ attempt to play games with me—you can’t win.”

 _That’s what you think_. Rage. Was that what this feeling was? It flooded her veins with fire. The world around her had narrowed to Reaver and a dull rushing sound. There was a little voice in the back of her mind that was begging her to not act on her feelings. She knew she needed to listen to it—who knew what would happen to Logan if she didn’t—but it hurt more than she expected. _He’s evil. Vile. How did I ever think he might be on my side?_

Reaver laughed, a faint sort of chuckle like he’d heard a bad joke that only just qualified as amusing. As if hearing her thoughts, he added, “Don’t be so quick to take the moral high ground, my sweet; we _both_ know you’re _far_ from bothered to be here… _aren’t_ you, _librarian_?”

 _What is he on about now?_ She twitched, annoyance rippling through her. Out of habit, she snapped: “I’m an archivist, _not_ a librarian.”

“But you _feel_ like one, do you not? How many _long_ nights have you spent toiling over your papers and artefacts whilst far less qualified _men_ reap the rewards of _your_ work? How many opportunities have you watched go by only because you happen to be a woman?”

 _Stop_. But she couldn’t find her voice to say it.

“It’s _difficult_ , isn’t it, to know the circumstances of your birth can ruin what you love most.” There was a distant note of something like understanding in his voice and she despised him for it. He stepped up to her, just out of range to touch her as he went on, “To know how many times you’ve walked out the door and thought about _never_ coming back. If you didn’t, you would finally get the adventure you worked _so hard for_. Adventure you find _here_ —one that _never_ has to end…if you don’t _want_ it to.”

Victoria’s throat felt tight, painfully so. He had absolutely no right to look so beautiful—a child of Skorm daring to pity a mortal—whilst saying such terrible things to her. The worst part was that he was right. Every word was. She didn’t understand how he knew. She’d never told anyone any of this before; she’d always been concerned it would hurt her family and friends’ feelings if she had. That they would look at her strangely afterwards. And now here he was saying it like the words were nothing—like she had every right to take pride in wanting more than she had.

She didn’t know what to say. Or what to do. Words weren’t forthcoming—in fact, she kept shooting down every bit of denial that occurred to her, if only because none of them were true. So what was there to say? He was right and they both knew it; and there was no point in lingering here.

The path behind him was open—a gap in the hedgerows showing yet more grey walls and featureless paths that lied ahead. With a deep, shuddering breath, she decided enough was enough. She didn’t have to listen to him. Didn’t have to put up with this. She started forward, edging past him despite the odd prickle of what she assumed was Will against her as she did so. But he never made to physically stop her.

“ _Victoria_ ,” he began almost warningly as she reached the edge of the courtyard.

She paused, turning back just long enough to murmur, “You might be right…but I have a gauntlet to beat. And I would rather deal with a flock of chickens than spend any more time speaking with you.”

“As you wish.” The whisper caught her as she resumed walking. She didn’t look back. She had no desire to continue wasting her time.

~ * ~

“Oh, you _must_ be joking.”

She wasn’t certain just how far she’d travelled before stumbling upon her next puzzle. At least an hour, perhaps longer. Victoria had expected retribution for so rudely walking out on her conversation with Reaver, but she hadn’t expected… _this_.

She’d exited her path and had stepped into an elegant stone courtyard. Carved stone benches sat at intervals along the long walls. A few dry leaves, dyed in their autumnal shades, skittered against the stone floor, though no trees could be seen. An enormous copper door sat at the far end of the plaza, rippling with aged patina. Before it stood a small cluster of statues: three angry chickens surrounding, but not facing, a large, crystalline egg. _Be careful what you ask for_ , she told herself, unsure whether to laugh or not. This had to be a terrible joke.

The chickens had been carved with life-like precision—the faint echo of feathers chiselled into their stone bodies giving her the odd sensation of feeling as though she were looking at live animals that had been bound in stone. Something clicked faintly as she crept closer. The next second, she’d flung herself out of the way as gouts of fire shot from the open beak of each chicken.

 _Maybe not a joke_ , she thought, gaping up at them from where she’d landed on the floor. The base of each chicken statue looked mechanical, circular indentations carved into the ground around them. Another click drew her head up and the flames went out.

Victoria half-crawled backwards until she was certain she was out of range of the fire and got to her feet. She braced herself, waiting for more flames, but none were forthcoming. _Should I assume they don’t blow fire at movement, then?_ Unfortunately, she was going to have to test that theory. Other than the way she’d come in, the copper door was the only way out. And turning around seemed cowardly after how brazenly she’d spoken to Reaver. She’d _asked_ for chickens after all.

The flames had only blocked off the middle of the courtyard and she had no desire to get near them again. Instead, she crept to the far wall and pressed herself as close as possible as she made her way. The benches that had previously seemed quaint were now a hindrance, forcing her to manoeuvre around them. Halfway down the path there was another click and flames burst from the chicken’s beaks once more—far enough away to not be a threat but audible enough to make her jump nonetheless. _Focus on your feet and keep walking._

The copper door loomed over her when she finally reached it. Other than the seam that ran down the centre, it was utterly featureless. Behind her, the statues clicked once more, killing their flames. She had just started to turn away when— _Oh! That wasn’t there before_. A keyhole had appeared, incredibly small for such a large door. _But where’s the key?_

Victoria turned to frown contemplatively at the chickens. The statues themselves seemed like poor hiding places, but the egg… The crystal was frosted and impossible to see fully through, but it definitely looked like something was inside. She just wasn’t sure how to reach it.

 _Glass…reacts to heat, doesn’t it?_ The thought came slowly but she was glad for it. If she could find a way to get it hot enough to crack…. _The chickens look like they’ll move…as long as I don’t get burned._ The chickens didn’t seem to care whether she was close or not before spitting fire, which left her with very few ideas for how they might work. On a wild guess, she decided to time it the next time they went off. Just under two minutes later, the flames died down once more.

She waited through the entire cycle twice more, just to be certain she had the times right, before finally moving.

The statue, when she reached it, was heavy, but not unwilling to rotate. Making an effort to keep as far from its beak as possible, she slowly inched it into place. The gears in its base grated harshly against each other but she made no effort to stop until it was facing the egg. It clunked and seemed to lock in place. _One down, two to go_.

Carefully, Victoria twisted the next statue and then the last into place. With bated breath, she watched as the chickens began breathing fire once more. The egg blackened with soot and then slowly began to glow. Cracks began to form, splintering like spider webs across it. _Come on; come on_. The flames died. Victoria watched, aghast, as the cracks repaired themselves. Soon enough, the egg looked as unblemished and unaffected as it had before.

Victoria cursed.

There had to be a trick to it. Like that time she’d accidentally broken a hot cup by— _That’s it!_ She needed something cold. There wasn’t very much snow in this courtyard, but she gathered what she could in her skirts. Now she just had to pray it would be enough.

She waited as the flames raged around the egg and, just as they died away, tossed as much of the snow as she could onto the egg. A bang like a gunshot echoed through the air. Wincing as she shook the remaining snow from her skirts, Victoria watched large chunks of crystal fall from the egg. It had shattered completely; falling in on itself until there were only a few jagged pieces remaining upright. In the centre, like a very odd yolk, was a glowing, golden key. It hovered, almost innocently, above the shards of its former prison. Victoria had to stop herself from immediately grabbing it.

Who knew what kind of Will held it in place…or what would happen when she took it. Not to mention there was still the concern that the chickens would begin firing again. She carefully slid her rapier from its sheath. It took a few tries, but she eventually managed to spear the end of the key and pull it toward her. Catching it, she slid the rapier back into its sheath.

The key was warm as though it had been sitting in the sun all day and, despite its previous levitation trick, was fairly heavy for its size. Smiling victoriously, she made her way back to the copper door and unlocked it. A small fragment of the door slid open, revealing a rectangle into darkness. Victoria checked her watch once before stepping through. 10:12am. Plenty of time. At this rate, maybe she’d be done well before the deadline! Smiling slightly at the thought, she stepped into the gloom.

The door closed soundlessly, of its own accord, behind her.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -claws her way out of the ground- I LIVE!
> 
> Also, I know some people like to keep an eye out for these kinds of things, so I thought it best to do one. If you don't care about content warnings and don't want spoilers, please skip to the chapter. If you do care about content warnings, then consider this a content warning for anyone who might have any problems with reading about drowning. Exercise caution with the end of the chapter, please.

“She’s doing quite well for a human, isn’t she?”

“…as opposed to…? It’s not like any of _us_ would attempt the damned thing.”

“…I just mean humans haven’t had much of a chance to win it, have they?”

“And somehow that mea—”

“I am not so impressed. This is only luck. She _will_ fall like the others.”

“Yes, but you don’t like _anything_.”

His subjects had been in a state all morning, exchanging bets and whispers like bookies at a horse race. Reaver let it all rush over him. His people were…unfortunately right. A small model of the labyrinth sat atop a podium beside his throne; he glanced over it with a seemingly casual eye. He’d led her in circles last night until the wisps had taken pity on her and led her into the courtyard—it hadn’t been out of malice, per say; more of the desire to not have to watch her and ensure that she didn’t wander into a challenge or somehow find a way to the castle while he was sleeping. This morning, however, was another thing entirely. Aside from a bit of backtracking, she’d kept to very strong paths. Certainly, there were better ones—at a glance he could pick out several paths that would have her here before tea time, or even elevenses, if he’d allow her to take them—but they were decent nonetheless. Currently, she was about a quarter of the way through the labyrinth. By his estimations, if she continued at this pace, she’d be half done by the end of the night and would finish the labyrinth with more than enough time to spare.

It was unacceptable.

Reaver mentally paused. But also _very_ intriguing. No one had beaten the labyrinth since he— _since he’d taken the throne_. Some had come close, but most ran out of time or died so early on that they weren’t any fun at all. Some…some were _exciting_. Those were the ones he enjoyed the most. The ones who came for the challenge and played as well as he did. _This_ , however, was concerning.

Victoria wasn’t playing. And she was doing much too well for someone taking this so seriously. He needed to turn her around or distract her or… _anything_. Something to make her lose a few hours. He couldn’t afford to let her win. Not just for the sake of his pride, either—the other three, the Queens, were most certainly watching this. Only one of them _really_ had anything to gain from him losing to a human, but it would put him in an awkward situation irregardless. Victoria _could not_ win.

Even if, perhaps, he almost wanted to see what would happen if she _did_.

He returned his gaze to where an enormous mirror showed what she was currently doing. The chicken puzzle…well, perhaps it _was_ a mite petty of him, but she _had_ asked for it. And he’d warned her about making promises she couldn’t keep. …she vexed him entirely. If he hadn’t been bound by these ridiculous rules, he— _no_. No, because that would have ruined the fun of it all. It was delicious to watch her struggle and fight and to imagine just how she would react to all he had in mind for her. Almost as delicious as the thought of her surrendering. Begging, pleading; giving in to him and what he offered her. How _beautiful_ it would be. It didn’t really matter which happened, did it? Either was a gift if only one looked at it the right way.

 _If she manages to open that door,_ that _might solve a lot of problems_. But she’d handled the banshee well enough…he’d have to be very, _very_ lucky for her to handle this one poorly.

“Do you think she might win?” one the whispering fae asked of their companions. They sounded…hopeful, like they wanted it to happen. It started up a twitching inside him—the urge to stab something.

“She will,” a quiet voice declared, cutting through the room more effectively than if it had been shouted. “There’s nothing you can do to stop her.”

**_OUT._ **

Reaver didn’t even need to say it—the command echoed through the room on a burst of power that had everyone hurrying to leave. The Fae rushed from the room, alarmed but still whispering; the wisps that had been humming secrets to him earlier in the day blinked out of sight in a burst of pale light. Soon there was no one left but him and the one who had spoken.

With an outward façade of perfect calm, he rose from his throne, abandoning his sapphire cloak where it lay, and made his way over to the mirror. He studied it, watching closely for a moment before turning back to face the speaker.

When he’d first made the challenge, Reaver had assumed Logan was going to be quite dull. A stodgy would-be lawyer without enough sense to keep away from things beyond his understanding. But his request put Reaver in bit of a bind—most petitions were easy to define as either noble or ignoble. A desire to help your family? Noble, and thus forcing him to play the challenge fairly unless the challenger botched the rules. A desire for gold? Ignoble, and so he was allowed to bend the rules to his heart’s content. But gold to help your family fell oddly into both categories and so he’d been at a loss. That said he was fairly certain Logan _would_ have won had he not gotten turned about at the last minute. Alas, the boy had not taken to his new life well, which Reaver knew meant he was either going to have to kill him or banish him, eventually, but…well, he’d get to _that_ bridge when he got there.

“You _really_ think so, do you? You really believe your sister will _somehow_ have the ability to conquer all and—and—and what? _Rescue you_ like some princess kept by a dragon?” Reaver scoffed. “Your faith in her is _adorable_.”

“You don’t know my sister.”

Logan said it so simply, with so much conviction, that it raised something like a wave of exceedingly bitter nostalgia within Reaver. He’d had that much belief in someone once, and look where _that_ had gotten him. _Foolishness. Utterly ridiculous_. It was disgusting.

In the mirror, Victoria was walking through the copper door, blissfully unaware of what he had waiting for her on the other side. Reaver offered Logan a polite smile.

“If you are _so_ very certain of her,” he began, taking a couple casual steps forward, “then perhaps you’ll oblige me with a _small_ wager. If she _ever_ finds a way to free you, I vow I’ll give you _exactly_ what you asked me for. What say you? Care to raise the stakes?”

Logan shifted, chains clinking against the divan he’d been seated upon. He shook his head, over-long hair falling into his face as he looked away. “I’m finished making deals with you.”

 _The truth comes out_ , Reaver thought, unable to keep from laughing aloud. He returned to his throne, sprawling almost elegantly atop it. “Not so certain of her after all, are you?”

Logan was silent a moment before, in the coldest tone Reaver had ever heard him use, he finally replied: “It’s not _her_ I have no faith in.”

~ * ~

It was a well. Or, more accurately, some sort of man-made canyon. The walls were flat, seamless stone and all the turns were crisp and sharp, leading out of sight. Standing atop a low, levelly paved platform against one of these walls, she could see other, similar platforms in the gloom. Between them was nothing but dark water. It was as smooth as glass and she could see nothing but her reflection within it.

There was absolutely no indication of what she was supposed to do.

She guessed the goal was to get across, but the gap between platforms was too far to jump. And she had the horrible feeling something would happen if she tried to swim across. _Should I throw pebbles? See if the path is invisible?_ But there weren’t any pebbles on the ground. Feeling along the closest walls, she couldn’t feel any handholds or footholds. The door had vanished after she’d stepped through it, as well, leaving nothing but a blank wall behind. She was trapped until she could figure out a way forward. Or she gave up. _I’m not giving up. There has to be a way. He wouldn’t make a trial that was impossible_. It occurred to her a moment too late that she was displaying a lot of undue faith in someone who had previously threatened to murder her brother if she didn’t play by his rules.

After about ten minutes of frustrated pacing, she threw herself down on the floor with a huff. This wasn’t fair. How was she meant to go forward when there wasn’t a single hint about what to do? The other challenges had had them. Why didn’t this one?

Something hit the ground behind her with a heavy **_clunk_**. She turned just in time to see a paper drifting innocently down from the ceiling to land atop a brightly coloured bundle of _something_. Something wrapped in a net. _What on earth?_ With tentative fingers, she plucked the paper from atop the bundle and read:

_My apologies, I almost forgot: you’ll require these._

The letters were elegantly inscribed—she’d only ever seen such precisely written letters on formal invitations before—but offered no real explanation. The bundle appeared to be nothing more than carved chunks of crystals, each the size of a gold piece and each marked with a golden sigil. _Runes_. If she was reading them correctly, each was a single word in the language of the Old Kingdom. There were almost too many for her to hold.

She had no idea what to do with them.

There seemed to be a theme to the runes—most corresponded to a different element—but what was she supposed to do with them? There didn’t seem to be a specific place Reaver had intended her to place them. Victoria lifted a greyish-green rune from the bunch, twisting it towards the light to figure out what it said. _“Earth”? Or is it “stone”?_ She’d just began wishing for clarity when one of the runes in the bunch temporarily flared with heat. She yelped at the pain, barely managing to keep from dropping all the runes. She couldn’t save the one she’d previously been examining. It hit the floor with a clatter, hopping towards the water.

“No!” she gasped, starting for it.

It was too late: the rune skipped out onto the still water, bounced once, and then disappeared below the surface with a faint _gloop_. All she could do was stare at the water. _Fuck. I’ve barely had these runes for five minutes and I’ve already lost one._

Scoffing at herself, she started to turn away…only to pause. Something was disturbing the water from underneath the surface. Churning its depths until waves spilled over, onto the platforms themselves. Victoria stepped away from the edge. Stepping stones had risen where the rune had struck the water—two of them forming a path between her platform and the next. The second stone had a small greyish-green rock atop it.

And, just as suddenly as it had began, it stopped. The water became as smooth as glass once more.

Hardly daring to breathe, Victoria cautiously stepped up to the edge of the platform and placed a foot atop the first stepping stone. It was solid; real. She carefully stepped onto the next platform and bent down to pick up the rock. The rune stared innocently up at her. _Very well_ , she thought, sucking in a steadying breath as she stepped off the stepping stone and onto the platform that had previously been out of reach. _If I understand that magic is real and can dramatically influence a place like this, then…perhaps it stands to reason that it can also transform elements into other elements._ She paused as a simultaneously thrilling and terrifying thought occurred to her. _I’m holding Will in my hands_.

Will…like the Heroes of legend were said to have used. _How is this possible?_

Of course, this didn’t really help her situation: she had the means but not a clear idea how to use them or where she was supposed to go. _If I need to keep dropping this rune to create more stepping stones, this is going to get very tedious._ And yet there seemed like very little else she could do.

Something splashed faintly in the darkness far beyond her platform and she tensed. The water around her still looked perfectly smooth. She licked at her chapped lips and hesitantly called, “Is someone there?”

She immediately wished she hadn’t. Who knew what Reaver had lurking for her here. If he was petty enough to give her a puzzle with chickens, then he was probably not above forcing something horrid on her just to get back at her for fighting him. But it was better directed at her, she decided, than at Logan.

Victoria picked through the runes, hoping to find something that might produce a quicker route. The next platform was bathed in shadow but she could make out the silhouette of a podium at the far end of it. It was further out than this one had been, though, and she wasn’t certain she could make the throw. Hoping for the best, she dropped it carefully on the edge of her platform before picking it up and chucking it at the next platform. It barely made it, tumbling to a halt as though exhausted. Grass and thick vines burst from both points of impact, growing rapidly. They stretched, reaching for each other like grasping hands until they’d tangled into a single, loosely woven bridge. She couldn’t help but grin.

The bridge creaked but seemed sturdy enough as she stepped onto it. The leaves waved in a non-existent breeze. It seemed a lot longer of a walk now that she was actually on it.

Ripples tore through the water to her right and she froze. There was no other evidence of what had made them. _Steady. Nothing’s wrong. Just keep going_. Still, she stumbled as she started walking again and heard the tell-tale drip of her skirts being pulled from the water as she righted herself. _That could have ended much worse_.

Two steps from the end of the bridge, something reached out of the water and dragged her in. A scream forced its way from her lungs, pain rippling through her, as she hit the water. She barely caught a breath before the hands had tugged her under.

Flashes. Blue light. Runes drifting from her hands. Pitch-black, serpentine eyes. Under everything, something was singing. She struggled to keep on the surface of the pool. Each time she got a deep breath, she was dragged under again.

One of the runes slipped from her hands and, deviating from what others she’d dropped had done, bobbed to the surface. The top six inches of the pool froze solid; the chill seeping into the rest of the water. Victoria didn’t have time to focus on it.  A mouth full of needle-sharp teeth sank into her flesh where her armour separated from her shoulder. Blood spiralled into the water as pain ripped through her arm. She couldn’t reach her dagger to stab at the creature. Even if she could, there were still a half-dozen more creatures darting through the water around her; silver tails flashing as they swam.

Her fingers felt clumsy and numb as she groped for one of the few remaining runes in her hand. She grabbed one at random and stuffed it into the mouth of the creature clinging to her back. Immediately, she felt like someone had tied an anvil to her. What she could see of the clawed fingers clutching her arm showed it had been turned to stone. A panicked tremor rippled through the water but she barely noticed as the others sped away.

Victoria was sinking. The weight of the creature clinging to her back dragging her down quickly. She wasn’t going to be able to get out if she didn’t get free. She fumbled to unbutton her polonaise and shrug out of it and her knapsack. Her rapier’s belt was caught too, and she hurried to unbuckle it. Free of the creature, she still was sinking. Too much weight. Panicking, she reached under her skirts to shed her bustle and kicked for the surface.

As she reached the top of the pool, she realised she was still going to die. She had no weapons and none of the runes. And, no matter how much she forced her weak limbs to pound at the ice, she couldn’t shatter it. Her body felt half-frozen with cold. Her breath burned in her lungs, but she couldn’t make herself let it out.

 _Help_ , she thought futilely, pleading to nothing that could hear or answer her. The water pulsed around her as if answering her. Her breath rushed from her in a cloud of bubbles. The pain in her chest only got worse—throat closed against the water trying to force its way in and lungs screaming for air.

Her vision was getting fuzzy and dark. She couldn’t move her arms and legs. She sank; hair and skirts billowing in the current. Death, she discovered, was as cold as an indifferent lover.


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is short; this chapter and the last really should have been one but...aesthetic? I forgot to mention this last time, but I went back and did some minor spelling and grammar fixes. If anyone noticed any errors (on any of my writing) please feel free to let me know. I'm always open to that. ^^
> 
> Also, let me know if you need me to add any warnings. Cheers.

Warmth.

First she became aware of it through painful pinpricks that erupted beneath her skin. Later as though she were wrapped in a cocoon, covered in every direction by gently radiating heat.

She couldn’t seem to stay awake. Mostly she just drifted, snatches of life appearing at random. The colourful haze she saw when she tried to open her eyes. Cold dampness from her hair pressing against her neck. The soft cushioning of blankets wrapped around her and pillows beneath her. A cup of something hot and sweet—like buttered syrup—pressed to her lips and careful instructions to drink murmured nearby. At one point, she thought she felt someone stroking her hair.

When she finally regained consciousness she was greeted with pain in almost every part of her body. Her shoulder throbbed in agony; her throat felt raw. Though she was breathing evenly, a residual jolt of panic started her coughing again before she could even fully open her eyes. A warm cup was held to her lips once more and she gulped down the contents eagerly. Warmth spread through her limbs, cascading through her until the pain started to ebb. She slowly cracked open her eyes.

Had she any strength, she would have thrown herself backwards. But Reaver lacked the threatening aura he’d adapted since she’d stepped into his labyrinth. He simply sat there, snow violently disturbed around his knees, and carefully studied her. He offered the cup to her once more and she accepted it after a moment’s hesitation. It didn’t really matter if the drink had been tampered with; she’d already ingested it.

They sat in silence for a long while. They were outside, under a delicate pavilion of brightly coloured fabric. The breeze was cool, but comfortable given she was covered under heaps of wonderfully soft blankets. Her fingers clutched awkwardly at the cup. She had no idea what to say. There was no reason for him to be here or for her to be alive. And yet here they were.

“Why?” she finally managed, throat protesting the strain. She tried to focus on the warmth of the cup in her hands, how it seeped into her fingertips. Her head was starting to ache along with the rest of her body.

“You called for help,” Reaver said. He wouldn’t take his eyes off her. “The labyrinth demanded I answer.”

She clutched the cup a bit tighter to still the tremors running through her hands.

“So I’ve lost, then.” The words hit her like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from her. She couldn’t believe this was how it would end: an entire three challenges in and she’d failed. And keeping her alive had been…what? Pity? Amusement? Some cruel need to shove it in her face?

But Reaver’s expression wasn’t yet malicious. If anything, he seemed thoughtful. “Hmm…no.  No, pet; you haven’t forfeited. You weren’t in a condition to make a deal regarding your retrieval. Think of it…as a gift.”

She didn’t have time to protest the term “pet”. At his mention of gifts, she felt a wave of dread settle into her gut like nausea. Once again she wondered what exactly gifts meant to his kind. “Why are you so intent on having me accept your gifts?” she asked, setting the cup aside and sitting up. “What do you stand to gain from me accepting them?”

For all her bluster, she knew it was pointless to refuse it now. It wasn’t like she could take back him saving her. She couldn’t exactly have him let her finish drowning.

Amusement twisted his features and he cocked a brow at her. “I’d think it should be obvious. Who gives a gift if they’re not expecting something of equal value in return?”

“And you… _what_? Think I’m going to save _your_ life?” She could barely get the words out past her indignation. _I’m doomed_.

He outright laughed. Delight softened his features until he didn’t look remotely dangerous any longer—just like some too-attractive bloke she’d meet in one of Bowerstone’s pubs. Tight, buckle-laden, leather ensemble notwithstanding, naturally. But the expression he settled into once the laughter had died down made her uneasy. It was devious and calculating. She instantly regretted asking.

“Oh, no; _not at all_. I’d never _dream_ of imagining you would save my life—or that I’d _need_ it, come to think of it,” he added contemplatively before shrugging as though it were a delicate issue he didn’t have time for. “The choice to save you and allow you to continue on is potentially disastrous for me…which means you _owe_ something potentially disastrous for _you_.”

She thought she might be sick.

“I had originally considered docking twelve hours from your time limit,” he continued on, oblivious to the squeak of horror that escaped her in response, “until I thought of something much _more_ appealing.”

“What is it?” she barely managed to whisper. Panic welled up inside her like stomach acid. She wasn’t certain if she was hyperventilating, but she couldn’t calm herself, either. Whatever reason he’d saved her for had certainly _not_ been kindness. Victoria may have avoided death, but she had not avoided failure. The only difference was that now she would probably be alive to understand the totality of it.

Slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, he moved to sit beside her. He traced the curve of her cheekbone with his thumb. Prickles of sensation sent shivers through her skin. His hand came to rest, gently cupping her cheek. “It’s a _game_ , Victoria,” he finally said. The words were so blunt and so evenly delivered that they all but snapped Victoria out of her fear. “That’s _all_ this is. We fight, we taunt each other, we both find some measure of entertainment in this until one of us wins and it’s _over_. It’s never been anything else but a game. Why not _enjoy_ it? _Relax_. Let me steal you away for some time. Allow me to show you an… _alternate outcome_ to this gauntlet.”

He said it all very reasonably, temptingly, but she couldn’t look at him. She was fairly certain she’d start blushing if she did. That said it certainly wasn’t the most _subtle_ proposition she’d ever received to go to bed with someone. It didn’t really matter.

Twelve hours…that was _such_ a long time. That could completely _ruin_ her chances at reaching the castle. But she didn’t know what she could counter with. What had the potential outcome of ruining everything but also left her a reasonable amount of room to manoeuvre and complete the labyrinth on time? She had no idea. By that reasoning alone, what was the harm in sleeping with him?

 _He’s a despicable arse_ , she told herself, as though that justified it. It didn’t. She didn’t have to like him to find him attractive. And, though she’d never think to compare them in any other circumstances, how different was it really from losing her virginity to Elliot? She wasn’t emotionally invested in either of them as a lover. That made it meaningless either way, didn’t it? Besides, it wasn’t like Reaver was asking for a _relationship_ , just a few hours of her time. Again she reminded herself that she didn’t have to _like_ him.

Another thought came to mind that maybe, just maybe, she could use this to her advantage. He’d specified “away”. If “away” was the castle, then couldn’t she use that to claim victory? He had never specified _how_ she had to reach the castle just that she got there. Wasn’t that a possibility that made it worthwhile?

She hadn’t realised she’d bitten her lip until the pain of it broke through her reverie. Almost hesitantly, she raised her eyes to meet his. Her heart seemed to thud off-beat.

He still hadn’t moved. “Let me—”

She cut him off with a nod.

He leaned in; the slow brush of his lips against hers drew shivers throughout her body. He caught her lower lip between both of his, gently sucking. Hand moved to bury in her hair. He shifted, tugging her closer and roughly parting her lips. He tasted like honey wine.

She reached up, stopping herself as pain surged through her shoulder. His hand dropped from her hair to her shoulder. The pain spiked; burning. Before she could pull away, the air shifted around them. Something like static poured through her wound, tingling beneath her skin. Her nerves seemed to ignite. Her pain didn’t fade; instead it swirled with pleasure that filled her in a heady rush. The entire world seemed to spin around her.

She moaned against his mouth. Arousal followed the path his Will had set, flooding her with pulsing heat. She wanted— _needed_ —to touch him but the blankets kept her pinned and unable to press further against him. Her nails scraped against his leather coat, unable to find a way to open it. She crushed her lips to his once more.

Apparently understanding her frustration, he moved to half-straddle her. Knee between her legs, adding much-needed pressure to the growing dampness between her thighs. He bit her ear, teasing and tugging to get her to arch into him against the annoying resistance of the blankets. Her hips rolled against him, demanding more. His Will filled her once more, inundating her until she cried out. Pressure that condensed within her core to a single point of pleasure-pain that lied somewhere beyond agony and ecstasy. Throbbing; _begging_ for release.

“ _Stop_ ,” she gasped, pulling sharply away from him.

She didn’t need to say it twice. The flow of Will immediately stopped along with most of need that had built up in its wake. He withdrew his hands and pulled away enough to sit back without having to actually get up.

Breathing hard, she dropped her head into her hands. She hadn’t imagined he could create that kind of reaction based on nothing but Will and a faint touch. Guilt twisted her gut and tried to ignore the frustrating throbbing between her legs. “Take twelve hours off the clock.”

She heard him shift but didn’t dare look up at him to gauge his expression. There was an odd note to his voice when he finally enquired, “Are you certain?”

“Yes.” It came out as a sort of nervous whisper, but she _had_ to be certain. This was starting to feel like a game she wasn’t very good at. A game she couldn’t win. And, if seducing him wasn’t something she could do whilst still maintaining her awareness, at least she knew she worked harder with an increased challenge.

For a moment, she thought he might refuse, leaving her with nothing to offer. His voice going eerily flat, he finally replied, “Very well. You now have until five after six tomorrow evening…but I wonder if you can _really_ make it in that time.”

Anger flushed the last traces of arousal from her. Lips twisted unpleasantly, she snapped, “Watch me.”

“I _have_. To mixed results. Such a _pity_ ; you started off so well and I _doubt_ you’ll get much further.”

“If you wanted to see me fail, you should have let me drown.”

The words hung in the air between them for a long moment. She wriggled back slightly, pulling her legs out from under him. She almost regretted needing to get the upper hand as Reaver smiled.

He reached out, gently taking her face in his hands, and said, “Oh, _pet_ …death is the _least_ I could do to you.”

Abruptly, she felt as if she were back in the freezing water—a chill seeping into her bones as she struggled to keep a steady breath. She kept her expression as neutral as she could manage as he got to his feet. He made it halfway out of the pavilion before turning back to her.

“Six-oh-five, tomorrow evening. _If_ you can make it…try not to be late. It would be so _unfortunate_ for your brother if you were.”

She blinked and he was gone, leaving her with nothing but the laughing tone of his voice to make her teeth grind. _Foul, vile man_. And yet…she almost wished she had his confidence. He was so convinced he would win. So convinced he would break her. She wasn’t so certain he was wrong. How quickly had she almost died already? All he needed to do was throw something equally hard at her and she had no chance. None at all. But she had the terrible feeling that admitting that would only get her and Logan into more trouble.

The blankets were beginning to feel stifling. She shoved them off and tried to take stock of herself. She sat atop a mound of pillows in her under things—fortunately her boots were still on and, from the feel of it, she still had the knife inside her shoe. Her clothes and boots were dry and her shoulder wasn’t bleeding any longer. Still, she felt rotten. Minor cuts and bruises littered her skin. Her corset had saved her from a nasty gash across her stomach; she could see some of the broken boning pressing oddly against her corset cover. Her petticoats were shredded in some places and, without the support of her bustle cage, they trailed sadly behind her when she stood up.

Still, none of her bones seemed broken and she was alive. That was the important part.

Futilely attempting to lift her hair from the back of her neck (she was going to have to rip a strip of fabric off of _something_ if only because the sheer amount of hair she had was impractical to leave down), she fumbled out from the mass of pillows. And paused. Her armour, her pack…both had been lost in her failed attempt at escaping the creatures—mermaids? Sirens? She didn’t know what to call them, but that was beyond the point. _Why are my things here?_

It wasn’t everything—her polonaise and bustle weren’t there, nor were any of the other random clothing items she’d lost along the way—but her armour, her rapier and dagger, and her knapsack were all there, squished in amongst the pillows and blankets as if they’d always been there. Through her confusion, the memory of Reaver’s words when he’d first proposed the gauntlet pulled at her: _“Solve the trials armed only with what you carry.”_ She’d thought he’d meant in in the intellectual sense. She hadn’t assumed he’d actually meant it in the physical sense as well. It was oddly fair of him; she didn’t trust it.

 _I don’t understand him_ , she thought, rifling through her knapsack. Nothing was damaged—in fact, everything looked like it was in almost the exact same state as before. She pulled her things out to make sure everything really was there before finding some spare pins and a bit of broken ribbon from her cloak to tie her hair up. Reaver made absolutely no sense to her. He threatened her, attempted to seduce her, and still, in a way, helped her. It wasn’t logical in the slightest. She couldn’t imagine what he wanted from her when his actions changed every time she saw him. _I’m thinking too hard on this. He called it a game; that’s all this is. A game where he makes all the rules—there doesn’t_ have _to be any logic to it if the person controlling the game is illogical_.

With her polonaise gone, she had nothing in place between her armour and her bare skin when she finally attempted to strap it back on. Even as she broke down a slightly thicker blanket in an effort to wrap it around her arm, she knew she’d have bruises or welts or something equally unpleasant to deal with once the trials were over. She supposed she’d just have to deal with it then. Unfortunately, she suspected ill-fitting armour was going to be the lesser of her problems. She didn’t know what part of the labyrinth Reaver had dropped her in, but it was a safe bet that she was on a different route than before and that this route was far from safe.

She gave a quick glance around the pavilion, unsure what she was looking for. There was a low table laden with warm, still-steaming drinks and delicate-looking food that she’d failed to notice upon first awakening. All of it elegant and enticing. Her stomach gave an angry grumble, reminding her that she’d not eaten in what had probably been hours. But she refused to take any of it; she wouldn’t get pulled into any more of Reaver’s so-called “gifts”. She’d beat this on her own terms. Still, her eyes kept flickering towards the table as she repacked her bag.

She stuffed her ruined cloak and blanket into the bottom of the bag and cursed as the tarot cards she’d forgotten about spilled over her lap. She hastily crammed them back into the box, noticing exactly one card (the nine of staves, upside down, though she didn’t know what that meant which made the card useless), before shoving them back into her bag and replacing the last of her things within. She tried not to think about just how much she was procrastinating. Because Reaver would make good on his promise to do worse than kill her, of that she was certain. And she was dreading what awaited her deeper in the labyrinth.

But her pocket watch, when she finally checked it, read 2:42 pm. With twelve hours missing from her deadline, she was already running low on time. Her back throbbed in protest as she pulled on her knapsack. With nothing left to procrastinate, she buckled her rapier about her waist and made her way towards the nearest exit.

In the tree above the pavilion, a magpie cawed. It watched her go with thoughtful eyes.


	7. VII

The labyrinth had gone eerily still since she’d woken up. From what time she’d spent within it thus far, she’d grown used to the sound of birdsong and the soft gusts of the breeze. Now there was nothing. It was as though the entire structure had decided to hold its breath. Victoria didn’t like it. Didn’t _trust_ it; it probably meant Reaver was preparing for a storm. The thought scared her if only because she had no idea how to avoid it.

The day passed in a quiet haze of monotony. Unsure if she were getting any closer to the centre, she followed path after empty path. She encountered nothing. The sun slowly dropped down behind the walls of the labyrinth. She stopped a bit after five to eat a portion of her bread—amazed it had survived her impromptu swimming session—and to rest before starting to walk once more. Her previous path had been littered with little plazas and courtyards, but this path was not. It was tight and cramped, the corridors winding so frequently that she was never certain if she was really on the right path. Occasionally it would open up and carry on straight ahead for a time, but it never lasted long.

Without the birds and flowers to occasionally distract her, she had to admit she was lonely. _Very_ lonely. And more than a touch homesick. She missed her dog and her family and even, to a degree, her work. She missed amusing dinnertime conversations and sitting in the window seat with a book and Nero’s excited kisses when he saw her. Above all she missed Logan’s quiet company. She’d only been in the labyrinth for less than a day, but it already felt like weeks. She wanted so badly to go home, but she refused to give Reaver the satisfaction of making her cry again and so tried to put the thought from her mind.

The sky had begun darkening; the labyrinth had started to grow cold, as well. The path before her was a dead end. It was odd: she was on one of those rare straightforward bits of path that should have eventually branched off, but this one did not. There was a blank wall at the very end of the path—a carving of an enormous face on one of the side walls and another blank wall across from it. She stopped before it, completely aware that she should turn back and try to find a new path. Stubbornness and exhaustion wouldn’t let her. There hadn’t been any breaks in the path for so long…the amount of retracing her steps that she’d have to do was annoying to consider. And what if the path had changed?

“Are you just going to stand there?” a deep, booming voice yawned.

Alarmed, Victoria turned around, searching for a person that wasn’t there, only to find the carved face blinking sleepily at her. “I— _you’re alive_.”

She had the distinct feeling that she shouldn’t be surprised, and yet…a talking wall was definitely new.

“I _am_ , yes,” the face said imperiously. “As are all Demon Doors. You might show a little more respect.”

“Right… _erm_ …I’m sorry?” A door…so did that mean this door was the way to her next challenge? She almost dreaded it. “May I pass?”

“With the right payment you may.”

Victoria fought the urge to sigh. Why were all the creatures in this world so obsessed with payment? Did no one ever do anything just because they wanted to? _The labyrinth’s supposed to be a challenge_ , she reminded herself; having to find payment when she had none definitely counted towards that. “What did you want me to pay?”

The door’s expression didn’t change, but its tone sounded a bit less annoyed as it said:

“ _My numbers have grown as birds’ wings once hoped to do,  
_ _Yet I thrive only twice a year…at least for you._  
I am a gift for lovers, friends, and the dead  
But I am beheld with care whilst in my bed.  
My bite is harsh, though few do mind;  
I was forbidden from entire kingdoms at one time.  
My colour can be brilliant, my skin most tender,  
But my hips are best found in the hands of a healer.  
All this I am, no more I be, if you would be so kind as to name me.”

Victoria simply stared at the door, utterly lost. “Would you…mind repeating that?”

She listened through thrice more before giving a shot at working the riddle out. She had no idea what connection birds’ wings and numbers had, nor did she know what only thrived twice a year specifically for her. Other than her patience, but she doubted the door knew that. She decided to come back to it later.

 _‘A gift for lovers, friends, and the dead…beheld with care in its bed.’_ Most of her ideas for gifts seemed wildly inappropriate when added to the specification of gifts to the dead. And what gifts needed to rest in a bed? Her first thought was jewellery; she remembered some of her mother’s more expensive pieces resting in a box on a thin pillow—a bed in name, at the very least. But there was no reason the dead would want jewellery as a gift. Her next thought was bread—dough needed to rest—but she immediately dismissed it, well aware it had only occurred to her because she was hungry. _What about flowers? Grown in a bed, given as gifts regardless if the receiver is alive._ She pondered it for a moment, deciding it fit with that particular line.

 _‘A harsh bite no one minds that was forbidden from kingdoms’…I’ll come back to it._ “Brilliant colour” fit in with a flower, as well, but “tender skin” made her think of fruit. _Flowers can bruise just like skin_ , she reminded herself, though she wasn’t as certain as she’d been before. _Don’t people still leave food for the dead sometimes?_ She’d seen bowls for offerings in her research before, but she wasn’t sure if it was still in fashion. As for “hips found in the hands of a healer”, it had to be a flower. And the only flower she could think of with hips were roses.

Victoria paused. Roses were popular gifts and, according to Jasper, were exceptionally finicky to grow—“beheld with care in their bed”. Their thorns “bit” on occasion, but few minded because they were soft and pretty and their hips were useful in cooking and medicine. Perhaps the best argument was that black roses had, at one time, been banned from several countries due to superstition. Albion had nearly been one of them, if she recalled correctly. _What do numbers and birds…oh, they both rise. If I use it in past tense, then—_

“Are you a rose?”

The door slid open, segments pulling away from the centre to reveal an opening into another path. The edges of the door seemed to shimmer faintly. Taking it as a sign that she’d succeeded, Victoria stepped through.

It was warmer here—the snow and ice were gone entirely; it felt more like early autumn than winter. Grass choked the cobblestone path, hiding most of the stones from view, and moss crept out between the stones in the wall. Everything smelled green and woodsy. The path was wider and less foreboding as well. After some deliberation, she began walking to the right.

Thorny vines enfolded the walls on both sides of the path, green buds the size of her fist peppered each vine slowly opening into ivory roses the size of dinner plates. Each vine was thicker that her wrists put together, each clinging tightly to the wall. The path was covered in the sweet vapour the flowers’ perfume. Victoria paused, contemplating, before reaching over to give a tug to the nearest vine. It didn’t budge. Ignoring the screaming protest of her shoulder, she grabbed onto the vine, avoiding the talon-like thorns the best she could, and hoisted herself up.

The sky was a pinkish-purple haze as the last dregs of the sunset died; the over-sized full moon hung in the sky like a great, silver coin, adding its delicate glow to everything. Almost directly in front of her, but still a good distance away, was the castle. It was a mass of pale stone, alternating heights, and the occasional spire all squished together on a hilltop; not the drab grey of the labyrinth, but something softer and more elegant. Lights glimmered in some of the windows—at this distance, they looked like stars.

Looking carefully around, she would have been willing to estimate that she was about halfway through the labyrinth. Halfway…with less than a day left in her deadline. _Perhaps if I walk through the night, I’ll get there in time_. It didn’t seem like the most brilliant of ideas. Stumbling into a trial, exhausted, sounded like a good way to die. A part of her considered walking along the top of the walls, but she didn’t trust her balance or that Reaver wouldn’t purposefully start moving the walls to throw her off them. Instead, she tried to pick out a route that led forward. With the growing dusk it was near impossible. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and began climbing down.

“Ouch!” She dropped to the ground with a yelp. Her index finger throbbed and, lifting it to the sparse light, she found a thorn the size of a needle half-buried in her skin. _Really, now?_ She pulled it out with a sigh and clambered to her feet. Her shoulder throbbed worse than ever, but there was nothing really she could do to stop the pain.

A comfortable breeze swept through the passage, rustling her petticoats as she walked. Occasionally a will-o’-the-wisp burst into being amongst the flowering vines, offering not a word before vanishing once more. The earlier stillness had vanished into a cosy kind of quiet. It would have been a beautiful evening, if only she had time to enjoy it.

The paths seemed far more casual, almost mindless in this section of the labyrinth. Victoria didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing. Were they attempting to lure her into a false sense of security or was it something less dangerous? But she hadn’t found anywhere that looked like a good place to stop for the evening and she had no choice but to keep walking.

She full on stumbled into the clearing. An elegant courtyard full of well-pruned shrubbery, marble statues, and ivy-draped archways. Her hand gave a throb as she stepped deeper into it. A total of four arches circled the courtyard; a statue of a woman stood in the centre of it all, overseeing the entire area with sightless eyes. Somewhat lost in thought, she picked the first path the looked reasonable to her—it was so dark, however, that it was impossible to see where any of the paths led—and walked through it.

She wandered into a clearing. An elegant courtyard full of well-pruned shrubbery, marble statues, and ivy-draped arch— _Wait a minute_. This was the exact same courtyard. _I would have sworn I walked straight through the path_. Frowning and determined to prove something to herself, she turned to walk back through the arch she’d passed through. The second her foot touched the path something clicked. She saw sparks shoot through the air and barely threw herself backwards in time to avoid the gout of flame that swirled over the path. It appeared she’d discovered her next trial.

Her hand gave another throb as she got to her feet. The flames had died down, but Victoria wasn’t sure where to go from here. Dense hedges outlined the stone walls of the courtyard and the arches looked to be the only ways out. Moving into the centre of the courtyard, she could see no obvious designation for which paths were safe and which were not. All four looked exactly the same. She rubbed at the back of her neck, feeling oddly over-warm. There had to be some way forward.

In the midst of rolling her eyes, she caught sight of something above her and paused. The woman’s statue was oddly sad—she clutched a shroud to her chest, barely covering her otherwise nude body, and reached longing into the distance with her opposite hand. …reaching towards one of the arches. He wouldn’t put the answer in the challenge itself… _would_ he? _Unless he assumed most challengers wouldn’t bother paying attention to a statue_.

Victoria scavenged a few stones and walked up to the arch across from the one the statue was directing her towards. A gentle toss later and the stone had clattered to the ground in the middle of the path, completely unharmed. _That doesn’t mean the path is safe…just that the rock is_ , she thought, head pounding. She tossed the next stone onto the next path over and flinched as blades shot up from the ground on impact. _Alright, then; it_ does _react to the rocks_. She fought back a shudder, well aware that she wouldn’t have been able to avoid that particular trap. However, when she tossed a stone onto the last path—the one the statue had indicated—nothing happened.

 _Two paths, two options_. The path before her seemed obvious and almost safe because it. Sucking down a deep breath, she started for the opposite arch. If both paths were safe on first inspection, then she didn’t want to be the fool who took the too-obvious route and, perhaps, wandered into some kind of monster. It seemed like the sort of switch Reaver would pull. Or try to.

Once more, she came out into the same courtyard. The rocks were even in the exact same places they’d been before.

Shaking her head, she bent down to retrieve the one in front of her. The world seemed to wobble around her. Her hand gave a throb that seemed to go straight to her head. _What’s wrong with me?_ She wasn’t certain if it was exhaustion or hunger or something else entirely; she had to get out of this area if she wanted to rest.

Victoria swallowed a wave of nausea and made her way over to the opposite path. As she came out into a new courtyard, she saw the statue was pointing in a different direction. There were different flowers here too, and her rocks were gone. Only the one in her hand remained. Hurrying now, she tossed her stone onto the indicated path and, when nothing happened to it, moved to retrieve the stone and carry on.

Whispers greeted her in the next courtyard.

“ _What is she doing?_ ”

“ _She shouldn’t_ be _here._ ”

“ _Danger; don’t you_ feel _it?_ ”

“ _Stop. Stop now._ ”

“ _Why won’t she stop?_ ”

“ _She_ shouldn’t _be_ here _!_ ”

“ _Danger_ is _coming._ ”

Victoria gritted her teeth against the onslaught of childish, bell-like voices murmuring from throughout the courtyard. Will-o’-the-wisps hovered in small clusters, watching with dark eyes as they bobbed in place. She tried not to pay them any mind as she made her way to the next path. The will-o’-the-wisps weren’t making any effort to halt her progress or distract her, though. They simply spoke to each other in troubled whispers that would have made her concerned if she hadn’t been feeling so wretched.

The world tilted violently around her as though she were a toy boat on stormy seas. She stumbled through the arches, ignoring the will-o’-the-wisps as best she could. Victoria was almost relieved to find herself staggering out into one of the labyrinth’s bleak passageways.

She slumped against one of the walls before staggering on. Every time a will-o’-the-wisp appeared at the mouth of a new path, Victoria veered away into a different route. It didn’t take her long to realise she was being led. It didn’t matter.

The world was dimming. She was losing control of her limbs, fading into numbness. Stumbling into an open area, she barely made it to what she thought was a bench before she collapsed.

~ * ~

No one had seen Reaver in hours. He’d vanished abruptly when Victoria had drowned, turning the mirror back into an ordinary mirror once more, only to reappear later in the afternoon—features drenched in bitterness as he‘d snapped, _“Your sister doesn’t have a chance.”_ The mirror had resumed working after that, but Reaver had stalked off into the bowels of the castle and hadn’t been seen since. Logan only lamented his absence because he had no one to vent his frustration at.

He had absolutely no idea what was going on. He’d watched Victoria fall, like a puppet without strings; he would’ve thought her dead if not for the steady rise and fall of her chest. He couldn’t track down Reaver, his chains wouldn’t let him leave, and the Fae in the throne room were too busy grumbling disappointedly to each other for him to catch one’s attention.

Logan watched helplessly as the disappointed Fae departed the throne room in pairs and trios, wandering away as though their nights had been ruined. Alarmed, he reached out and barely managed to catch the arm of one as they tried to pass him by.

“Why are you leaving?”

The fae scoffed. “It’s over. None of the runners who Dream wake up; there’s not a reason to watch someone sleep until they die.”

Logan’s heart seemed to stop for a beat. Trying to squash down a wave of panic, he barely noticed as the fae yanked themselves free and stalked off. He wanted to reach through the mirror and shake Victoria awake. He wanted to storm through the halls of the castle and utterly destroy Reaver and everything he’d built. But he couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t move, couldn’t leave; he was helpless. And he was going to have to watch his sister die.

She almost looked dead already—sprawled atop a stone bench, chest barely moving with each breath; her skin had taken on an eerily ashen quality. She looked like a statue atop a kist.

“They’re wrong,” a quiet voice murmured.

Logan whirled around to find a dark-skinned man standing nearby. The man’s one good eye was focused on the mirror, his hands folded behind his back. He didn’t have the feel of Will about him, but he didn’t feel entirely human, either.

“The Dream,” the man went on, “is not intended to kill. Its purpose is to tempt and to torment, to distract from reality. She may wake whenever she chooses… _if_ she chooses. So long as she understands it isn’t real.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Logan barely managed to enquire. “If she doesn’t realise she’s dreaming…?”

The man paused. “If it comes to that, pray she does not wake.”

“What happens then?” A thousand horrible scenarios of what might happen if she were to wake, trapped in a dream. But the man didn’t answer. And Logan was left to wait, dreading the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's gonna bump the rating up. For a single chapter, we're gonna get explicit as...actually, it will quite literally be "explicit af". I'll put warnings at the beginning of that chapter when it's up.


End file.
